#Second Battle of the Mound

[mgakwentongbayan]

Branwen, Daughter of Llŷr

“Branwen, Daughter of Llŷr” is another captivating tale from “The Mabinogion,” the collection of Welsh medieval legends. The story follows the tragic events surrounding Branwen, the daughter of the Welsh king Llŷr. Here’s an abridged version of the story: Branwen was a beautiful and kind-hearted princess, beloved by all who knew her. Her brother, Bendigeidfran (Bran), was the mighty king of…

[sirfrogsworth]

Do you remember that Aussie sword guy who used to talk about medieval weapons?

And, like, he seemed pretty good at talking about swords and shit. He seemed to have a good grasp of the history and tactics. He'd analyze movie weapons for their realism and that was fun. He did demonstrations with real weapons. For a time I really looked forward to his videos popping up in my feed.

He seemed like a harmless sword-fighting aficionado.

But then I guess he wanted to spread his wings. So he started down an anti-woke path. Giving questionable critiques about media and feminism. He started defending boob armor by showing historical examples even though most of those were decorative and not battle ready like in the games.

Then he admitted he was a fan of The Daily Wire.

And that was disappointing.

I missed him nerding out about swords, ya know?

Well, Shad decided to spread his wings again.

He has become...

*bad French accent* An artiste.

You see, he types words into a little box. Then a little robot does a google image search and steals a bunch of art. Then that robot reconfigures that art to be nearly indistinguishable from the source material. Well... aside from the occasional artist watermark.

Whoops!

A.I. art is very difficult. Sometimes when you type words into the box you get a woman with 5 lopsided anime tiddies. Or 20 fingers on one hand. It takes time and effort and experience to type in the perfect magic words so that you get something close to your imagination that doesn't belong in some sort of Lovecraftian horror ripoff.

For example, check out this cool "pirate hat" I asked A.I. to place on my head.

Clearly, I am not skilled enough at typing words into a box to get a proper pirate hat.

It. Is. Not. Easy.

I heard someone say you have to type things in a box for 10,000 hours before you start getting truly masterful generations.

I mean, you can't type "marathon runners" and expect that to actually work.

THIS REQUIRES SKILL, PEOPLE.

And I am a lowly amateur. I can only dream of becoming the box-typist Shad has honed himself into.

The thing is... Shad is very upset.

He is upset that you don't like his "art" and he is ready to die on this hill.

So... before he croaks on a mound of bullshit, he has something to show you. He has created something truly brilliant and when you see it, he is convinced you will validate his considerable efforts.

Before I show you his "Not. Easy." artistic masterpiece I'd like you to sit with what he has said for a second.

Ruminate in the verbiage.

Process the ideas and points of view presented.

Digest his plea for you to accept and love his hard won battle after typing words into a box to manifest his imaginings.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Have you sat?

Ruminated?

Processed?

Digested?

Okay, here it is...

[kinichval]

cw. suggestive, just childe being a boob man.

childe slams down a handful of cash on the table, you didn't flinch, but rather your right brow raised up in question of what bullshit this man (who happens to be the love of your life) is up to.

a menacing smirk, his elbow on the table, and an open hand challenging a battle of arm wrestling. oh, oh, now you know exactly what he's up to.

you hold his hand, not missing the way his cheeks flush a hint of red (yes, he still blushes when you hold his hand), settling your arm in the perfect position for a war of strength — which obviously you lack in comparison to childe's devotion to the gym and his current workout regime.

he doesn't move just yet, neither of you do the honors of counting down, because you know exactly what he wants.

your free hand swiftly reaches for the zipper on your blouse, his eyes quickly follow your movement.

"you seriously think i'm flashing you just to win money?"

to say childe was led on was an understatement, this man has his eyes drooping in disappointment, his lips curve down and drag an exaggerated sigh.

"guess it was worth the try."

he sulks, arms crossed over his chest, his blue eyes avoiding your gaze as he continues to pout. his plan failed, poor him.

"you know..."

your voice laced with seduction, your fingers twirl around his longer ones before you grab his wrist and hover it over your zipper.

"you can just come to me and do this."

his fingers take a hold of the zipper head, you could see the sparkle in his eyes as he pulls it down revealing your delectable mounds.

the next second, he already has a hand over your breast and another holding your face as he claims your lips in a deep and long kiss.

childe goes feral over your tits. clothed, bare, bra only, clothed but no bra especially those fitted tees that freely reveals your perked up nipples — they're childe's favorite girls after you, childe won't leave them unattended.

[keehomania]

mark + big tits!reader i feel like mark would go crazy over big tits 🤭🤭

mark is a boob guy he told me himself!

MARK LEE really did love you with his entire heart. he did everything a good boyfriend was supposed to do; he made you laugh, he treated you to brunch and dinner, he spoiled you whenever he got the chance, he made you his muse for his music, and he was never afraid to show his love openly. you were just as good to him; you laughed at all his terrible jokes, you cooked for him, made sure he felt safe enough to open up to you, and consoled him whenever he did open up. you had both steadied a bridge and crossed it without any problems.

almost, actually. see, mark had an issue of his own. unbeknownst to you, he had been battling some thoughts of his own that, for the first time in forever, he was too scared to share with you. it had to do with the way your tits were outlined and accentuated, no matter what you wore. the first time he took notice of it was when you had gone out to lunch with him and his friends. he was aware you were blessed with a bigger chest, but he really did his best to look anywhere else but there. it wasn’t until he caught jaehyun taking peeks, his gaze lingering longer than necessary on the top of your cleavage. you were oblivious, but not mark. ever since then, it was a chore to focus on anything else.

you didn’t bother dressing modestly around the house, why would you? you sported a pair of shorts and a loose, short tank top as you cooked and vacuumed. mark was sprawled out on the sofa, his eyes focused on the television, though he really didn't care for whatever shitty soap opera was currently on. it wasn’t until you came by the table to clean up, guiding the vacuum across the floor as you did so. mark couldn’t peel his eyes off you, his gaze glued to you as you bent over to reach every crack and crevice. his breath hitched in his throat as the straps of your top spilled down your shoulders, revealing a good half of your bare, huge tits. they moved with every persistent nudge of yours as you continued to work, bending down further to reach the corners. as you did so, your top went with you, spilling further down your shoulders until your nipples were peaking, the mounds of flesh now completely visible to mark.

he couldn’t ignore the way his dick hardened in his shorts, and he was completely sure you would notice and think of him as the world’s biggest creep, but he couldn’t control himself. all he wanted to do was turn the fucking vacuum off and pin you to the couch, make an even bigger mess all over your tits, than the one you were currently cleaning. you had straightened yourself and met his eyes with an oblivious smile. turning the vacuum off, you asked him sweetly, “what’s wrong, baby? everything okay?”

something inside him had overgrown the shame he had been nurturing, something dark that had to do with the ache in his cock and the sudden seriousness in his eyes. “come here,” he said, his tone low and steady. your smile faltered, thinking you had done something to piss him off, but you knew better than to question him when he seemed so serious. “what’s wrong?” you asked with a frown as you reached his spot on the sofa, towering over him as he straightened his back.

he didn’t say anything immediately, he just spread his legs out and leaned back. you didn’t catch his drift until your gaze followed his movements, stopping upin reaching the very evident tent in his shorts, resting against his thigh. you weren’t too sure what had done it for him, but you didn’t care. you had done something to make him horny and the raw sight of him so needy went past your eyes and straight to your core.

“come here,” he repeated, his voice just as low. he gestured towards his lap, patting his bare thighs for you to make yourself comfortable. with shaky legs, you obliged, planting your palms on his shoulders and letting him wrap his arms around your bare waist to adjust you some more. you felt it the second you sat down, the weight of his hard cock pressing into your shorts. no matter how clothed you were, you felt every bit of the hardness resting against your clit.

your fingers trembled around his shoulders, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth to keep yourself fron reacting just yet. “you feel that?” he purred, his hungry eyes boring into yours. “you feel how hard you’re making me?” you could only nod quietly, trying hard to fight back against the warmth that soread through your panties, dampening them just enough for mark to notice, a smirk gracing his lips. you had never seen him so focused, so serious. the sheer weight of his gaze mixed with the way he traced circles on your hips was enough to break you.

“can you do something for me?” he asked, his voice slightly softer than before. you nodded in response. of course, you thought, anything for him. “take your top off for me, yeah?”

the request caught you completely off guard. there was nothing strange about it, but you had expected something more demanding. to suck his dick, get him off, or even get straight to fucking, but mark wasn’t like that. you knew better, so you obliged, pulling up the hem of your tank top and sliding it over your arms as he watched you, his gaze content and sinful. you tossed the top aside, leaning back as you allowed him to take you in with his eyes, giving him exactly what he wanted. you felt embarrassed, your elbows coming up to cover yourself, but mark was faster than you.

his hands wrapped themselves around your wrists, pulling your arms away from your chest. “don't even think about it,” he murmured, the tone of his voice enough for your arms to drop. you studied the way his eyes lit up at the sight of your bare tits, your nipples hardening under the weight of his gaze.

“i really tried to control myself, i really did,” he admitted softly. as he did so, he pulled you in closer, a gasp passing your lips as he pushed your hair to one side, giving him complete access to your neck. you arched into the feeling of his lips grazing your skin, teeth sinking into the flesh only for his tongue to caress the same spot seconds later. your tits, plump and heavy, grazed his forearms you did so. “but i can’t anymore, i’m really sorry.” you gasped as his lips travelled south, his tongue dancing over your collarbone, tinged with sweat and perfume.

“you should’ve just—fuck, told me,” you rasped out through a moan as he continued. you were so unaware of his hidden infatuation and, in fact, displeased that he hadn’t brought it up sooner. his hands attached themselves to your tits, a soft moan of relief passing his lips as he kneaded the flesh of your tits. “told you what?” he taunted as he brought his lips down around one of your nipples. “that i can’t get enough of your boobs, is that it?”

you were too caught up in the feeling of it to respond, your only reply a soft, strangled moan as your fingers tugged at his hair, bringing him further into the valley of your tits before pushing them together around his nose. he moaned, taking in the sweet scent as he probed at the thick flesh, tugging and squeezing the mounds around his face as his tongue explored the surface. “so fucking big,” he rasped as he lifted his head ever so slightly, enough for you to see the drool that glistened on his chin, before coming back down with a shake of his head. “they’re so fucking big.”

spit coated your boobs as he took one into his mouth, even though he knew he couldn't fit it all in, his other hand groping your other boob as tears filled your eyes. it had to have been some sick combination of pleasure and embarrassment, pure heat engulfing your cunt through your shorts as he sucked on your tit. he looked up at you, his eyes rimmed with hunger as he practically ate away at your boob. “get me off with them, yeah? that okay?” the request was enough to make you tremble, barely able to nod as the thought of him, so desperate and needy, fucking your tits raw clouded your mind.

you watched as he pulled his shorts down, his hard cock springing free from his boxers. it was already glistening with precum, and he didn’t even bother to stroke it before he watched you lay flat on the couch as he pushed the base of his dick against the soft mounds of your tits. “yeah, like that, come on, baby,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to rock his hips back and forth, your boobs jiggling with every thrust. you could feel the warmth of his cock, the wetness of his spit and precum mixing together, creating a sticky mess on your chest. it drove you insane, creating an even stickier mess between your thighs. it was all about the wild look on his face as he watched the way your boobs took his entire length in, the way his free hand toyed with your left tit, pulling at the nipple and squishing it against the skin of his cock as he rutted his hips slowly. the tip of his dick hit your chin and you couldn’t help but open your mouth, letting your tongue wrap around his head and take it in between your teeth as his shaft twitched between your boobs.

his groans grew louder as he picked up the pace, his hips slapping against your chest with every thrust. your eyes rolled back in pleasure as you felt the pressure build in your own core, his dick sliding along the underside of your chin as your tongue swirled around the tip. “fuck, i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum all over your tits,” he warned you, his voice tight with need. you nodded, eager for it, feeling your own orgasm building as you watched his face scrunch up in ecstasy. your hands found their way to his hips, urging him faster, pushing him closer to the edge. you could feel the pulse of his cock, the way it grew stiffer and stiffer against your skin.

with a guttural moan, he came, spurts of hot cum painting your chest and neck as his tip left your mouth and twitched against your boobs. he thrusted forward once more just to feel the warm flesh, still spurting, and you watched with wide eyes as ropes of his seed shot out, landing on your chest and stomach. you looked up at him, panting, your chest heaving with every breath as your own climax hit you like a wave, your legs squeezing together as your muscles tightened and released in a symphony of pleasure.

mark’s eyes never left yours, the sight of his cum on your skin driving him wild. he leaned in, licking the creamy liquid off your neck before grabbing your hand and guiding it to his hardening member. “don’t get tired on me, baby. who said we were done?” he whispered, his voice husky with satisfaction.

✧.*

a/n: thank you to whoever requested this!! if you don’t like how it turned out lmk and i’ll redo it babe

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

*NSFW* I'll keep you warm (Yandere!Lynx Shifter X GN!Reader)

CW: Intense temperature exposure , Yandere behavior, dub-con, dead dove, imprisonment/abduction

Inspired by @lonelyafacy 's monster suggestion ❤️

Mother Nature was a cruel and indifferent witch, unforgiving towards those foolish enough to tread her wilderness. (Reader) smacked their dying flashlight, becoming numb to the harsh winter cold through their snowsuit.

The weather had turned for the worse, changing from a snowy winter's day into a blizzard that lasted into the night, separating (Reader) from their group. Their lips were stuck together with frozen blood, and their eyes could barley stay open. The snow coming down was deceptively sharp, nicking their cheeks above the slipping scarf and turning their skin into fragile paper.

Although they pushed on, trying to use the stars amongst the flurry of white as their guide, their limbs were losing their feeling, and (Reader) was beginning to wonder if it was worth the battle. The flashlight flickered again as though it could hear their thoughts. (Reader's) knees buckled, causing them to collapse by the base of a tree. They pulled their limbs in under their body, and fell unconscious, incapable of keeping themselves awake through the cold.

Am I dead?

(Reader) smelled something cooking before they realized they felt warmth. They hadn't been anywhere near civilization, so the first semi coherent thought they had was that they had died and this was heaven. Until their muscles began twitching in pain. A large hand pressed (Reader) back into a mound of furs when they forced themselves to move. The hand was warm and strong, even through the blankets (Reader) could feel it.

"Sleep." A gravelly voice commanded.

(Reader) kept their eyes closed, face mostly buried in the cloud like bedding. "Where am I?"

"My home. I found you outside." The unknown man responded while moving around the home, floorboards creaking under his weight. "Sleep more. It'll hurt less." His sentences were short and curt, but (Reader) didn't mind. Whoever he was had saved their life, so he couldn't be too bad of a person. (Reader) fell asleep again.

After thirteen hours (Reader) woke up and was able to sit up without pain, still feeling exhausted despite sleeping for such a long time. Their stomach hurt from hunger. "Hello?" They called out for whoever had rescued them.

A giant entered into view, wearing a hood that obscured his face from (Reader). He held out a wooden bowl filled with some kind of stew. "Can you eat?"

(Reader) reached out from the blankets, immediately going into shock when they saw their own naked arms. "Where are my clothes?"

"Drying. You think I'd put you sopping wet in my bed?"

Embarrassed, (Reader) turned red, ashamed for doubting their hero for even a second. They grabbed the bowl, thanking the man quietly.

"The blizzard has gotten worse. Even I can't leave right now. Once the storm has passed I'll point you in the direction you need to go. Until then, stay warm. Heal up."

"...Thank you."

"You already said that."

"That was for the food. Thank you for saving me."

Although he had his back turned to (Reader) they could see him tense under their words. (Reader) assumed he was uncomfortable with their presence, based on how he kept his face hidden. "My name is (Reader)."

"You don't need to know my name." The man's response was almost panicked, growling as he stormed out of the room.

(Reader) was left upset over the fact that they seemed to anger their savior. He must be anti social..

They finished the bowl of stew and waited under the fur blankets, unable to take care of their dish without walking around in the nude. After some time he returned, taking the bowl without a word, his hand seemed huge in comparison to (Reader's).

"Thank you." They smiled up politely, hoping he was looking. The man shuddered again, hurrying away with the bowl. (Reader) cleared their throat. "Are my clothes dry yet?"

"Your jacket was frozen solid when I found you. It took a few hours just to thaw. Everything is still damp."

"Why were you outside in this weather?"

"I was on my way back from some last minute hunting and gathering."

"Ah, I see. Thank you. Again."

"There is no need to thank me." His body seemed to relax. (Reader) smiled, hoping that this meant they were wearing him down.

"You saved my life. I got separated from my friends and couldn't find my way in the dark. I would have died out there if it wasn't for you." (Reader) spoke as sincerely as they could. "You're my hero."

He took a deep breath. "I have... lived alone for a very long time. No one knows that I am here. I almost... left you, when I found you."

(Reader's) heart grew heavy with guilt. "I promise I won't tell anyone about you." They briefly imagined that under his cloak was a kind of Quasimodo esque being, who risked his identity to save them.

Even without seeing his face the man seemed surprised, turning to (Reader) and staring from under his hood.

"Cain."

(Reader) gave a large toothy grin. "It's nice to meet you, Cain."

They sat together in a strangely comfortable silence, before a gurgle reminded (Reader) that, unfortunately, they were still human. "Do you have a restroom?"

His relaxed demeanor stiffened again. "It is.. down the hall." He quickly handed an oversized shirt to (Reader) before turning his back for privacy, and pointes in the direction of the facilities.

(Reader) threw the shirt on without thinking too much about it, and painfully hopped to the toilet. The building was a cozy little cabin, (Reader) was just now realizing, with pictures hung up on the wall of a family. They wondered if it was Cain's family. But the need to go was stronger than their curiosity.

They collapsed onto the toilet before realizing that there was an odd smell in the bathroom. It wasn't the normal bad stench of a toiletries, but it smelled rotten.

In the corner of the room was a pile of clothes, and other than that the restroom seemed to be empty, with nothing that could be causing such a smell standing out to (Reader). (Reader) didn't want to be snoopy, but... They finished hurriedly, praying that Cain couldn't hear them, and picked up the clothing. The clothes were heavy, torn into shreds and soaked in old, dried blood. A chill ran down (Reader's) spine. Cain didn't want anyone to know he was here. He considered leaving me to die to keep that secret.

How far could I make it in just a shirt?

They left the restroom, trying their best to appear normal. The family on the walls taunted them. Did the blood belong to one of them?

Cain sat by the fire, still hiding under his cloak. Next to him was (Reader's) clothes, hung up on the back of a chair. Maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions. (Reader) sighed, placing a hand on their heart to muffle it's pounding. He still saved me.

(Reader) touched their shirt, feeling the warm dampness and was relieved, because it meant Cain hadn't been lying about that at least. "How long do you think this storm will last?"

"Hopefully just the night. It could last up to a week though."

They shivered at the thought. "Do you have a couch I can sleep on? I wouldn't want to take your bed. Again."

"You can take the bed."

"I'm really fine-"

"Take the bed."

(Reader) could feel the adrenaline shoot to the tips of their toes. "O-okay." Although there was a smile on their face, the previous comfort they felt around Cain was dead. They had trusted him so much simply because he rescued them that they had forgotten that Cain was still a stranger.

Cain grabbed (Reader's) wrist as they passed, his hand engulfing their forearm with his inhumanly large mits. The air became heavy, and (Reader) could feel their arm sweating in his strong grasp.

"Your hand smells like blood."

Frightened, (Reader) smacked at Cain with their free hand, knocking his hood back. Although his face looked only a few years older than (Reader) his shaggy hair was a light grey, and atop his head were two pointed ears, pressed back against his scalp. If it weren't for the coloration, (Reader) CO m wouldn't have noticed the ears at all with how flatly they laid against his head. Shocked, he released (Reader's) arm, giving them enough time bolt out the front door, back into the blizzard.

Snowflakes pierced their skin as they ran, and the warmth they had gained in the cabin was gone the moment they left it's protective embrace, robbed by the harsh environment. Barefoot, (Reader) ran in a random direction, not capable of rational thought. With fight, flight, or freeze, they learned in that moment what kind of person they were.

Between the clouds masking the stars and the onslaught of snow, (Reader) was left completely blind. Without any clothes it felt like their muscles were shredding in their legs. (Reader's) legs gave out much more easily than they had the first time.

(Reader) could barely hear Cain's footsteps above the roar of the wind. Through the trees a large grey monster stalked into view, walking on its hind legs like a man, it's terrifying size was more reminiscent of a bear's. It's ears were flattened, and there was an almost human like expression of disappointment on its face.

"What were you thinking, running off into the woods?" It's voice was hoarse, but it was recognizably Cain's.

As he approached his fur receded, shrinking back down into his more human form, still with animal ears, now naked in the snow. He bent over (Reader's) violently shivering form as they crumbled.

"Did you forget that there was a storm?"

(Reader's) eyes stung as they tried to cry. "Please don't kill me." They weakly pleaded.

"Why would I save you, only to kill you later?" His warm breath thawed (Reader's) cheek. "You were unconscious for a long time when I found you. I thought you were dead. Unlike myself, you needed shelter suitable for a human. So I took one. I didn't have time to clean up everything. I needed to bring back everything I had caught to begin preparing a meal for when you awoke and making it comfortable for when I would eventually make you mine, so I was hoping that you would understand. That I killed them for you."

Cain's hot tongue licked (Reader's) cheek, the juxtaposition between the extreme cold and his sudden warmth made their skin feel like it was being torn off. (Reader) gasped out in pain, too cold to scream.

"I really did almost leave you in the snow. Because what if you left? Found out what I was and told the other humans? But look at you... Were you even conscious when you begged me to save you? Or was that your body acting on its own?" Cain got onto his knees, his skin searing (Reader's) flesh. His fingers digging into their shoulders felt like flames dancing across their body. Each touch from Cain burned. It was neither comforting nor pleasant.

"Ah, but now you're nearly frozen, yet again. Do you want me to warm you up?" Everytime Cain shifted his weight above (Reader), they were exposed to the blistering wind. As the parts of them hidden under Cain's body warmed up in his unnatural heat, the more excruciating the exposure to the outside was.

Tears melted (Reader's) fragile eyes. "Please, warm me up, Cain." Their primitive need for survival made (Reader) beg like a pathetic coward.

The loving smile on Cain's face was brief, before his face began shifting, becoming the humanoid monster he was moments earlier. Dwarfing the terrified human, he ran his rough tongue across their cold body, purposely allowing their body to freeze without his touch before warming (Reader) back up. He relished in the needy whimpers escaping (Reader's) lips as they suffered in the deadly temperature. (Reader) grasped at Cain's fur, trying to pull him in to steal his heat.

Clawed paws grabbed (Reader's) thighs, pressing their knees to their head uncomfortably. (Reader's) eyes widened in horror as Cain revealed his cock, resting it across their exposed bottom. They didn't have time to protest before their body was folded into a mating press, no preparation for their tightened hole, no warning to help them relax. Cain pressed his tip to the opening, and snapped his hips into (Reader's), thrusting in his entire member without lubricant.

Cain's dick was already hot, but with the added pain of the sudden insertion it was like being fucked by an iron poker. The scream (Reader) couldn't find earlier now ripped through their throat, the sound of their agony drowned out by the howling wind.

(Reader) pushed Cain away in surprise, but immediately regretted the action when he playfully leaned back, allowing (Reader's) chest to be assaulted by the snow and hail pelting them from all sides. They pulled him back, cringing at how Cain chuckled in their ear.

He fucked them in the snow, pressing deep into their gut painfully, and humiliating (Reader) further by licking away their tears as they sobbed under his body, incapable of pushing him away. Cain could stop at any moment, but the threat of frost bite kept (Reader) latching onto him, begging him not to let go. Their desperate cries only encouraged Cain to continue teasing them, watching with glee as their skin chapped and bled without his touch.

"It hurts..." (Reader) moaned as they pulled him in deeper.

"If you keep whining like that you'll only make me cum faster." Cain threatened, biting (Reader's) neck to hold in a gasp when they tightened around him. Their knees smacked into their temples as his pace sped up, his twitching cock threatening to release deep inside (Reader).

"No! Don't cum inside me!" (Reader) blubbered into the monster's fur.

(Reader) felt a wave of heat blast inside them as Cain pumped his thick load into their raw hole. As they wept loudly Cain continued happily smacking his wet pelvis into his beloved's, just the action of fucking his seed into them turning him on again.

Cain was already planning their futures together, as (Reader) imagined their death. This wouldn't be so bad, fucking (Reader) like this; purposefully keeping them needy so they clung to him like they wanted it.

Maybe one day, (Reader) would love him in the same way as Cain loved them, and would beg Cain to make love to them, but for now, he was content fucking them like a desperate, wild animal.

Blood from the wind burns and from the tearing from rough sex stained the white white under their bodies. Cain turned back into a human so he could kiss (Reader) passionately, taste their mouth salty from their tears.

"Let's go home, (Reader)."

[flautistsandpeonies]

Today I remembered that Wei Wuxian was able to identify Nie Mingjue's body by the way it swung its arm (saber form), and it really got me thinking about how that's possible, and the other implications and questions it conjures.

There's the likeliest option, which is during the Sunshot Campaign, Wei Wuxian fought closely alongside Nie cultivators or even Nie Mingjue himself. And they would have had to have been close together cause it would be hard to memorize a blade form in the midst of battle while also playing a flute that controls the dead.

Then there's the second option, which is during the downtimes of the war before battles, Wei Wuxian would watch the Nie train. The reason why? Well:

Wei Wuxian has been shown to have an interest in sabers, even though we've never actually read/seen him use one. During the burial mound days with the Wens, his study/room was said to have more than one saber inside. What was he using them for? It couldn't have been for defense cause he would have given them to the few Wens that could possibly fight, and he possibly could've/would've taken one to Jin Ling's one-month celebration if he could wield one. Was he studying them? What for? Why? What type of metal were they made out of? Iron, like the Stygian Tiger Seal? Where did he get them? Who crafted them? Why would he get sabers when both he and the Wens use sword forms?

What do you all think? I'd really like to speculate more about this with someone.

[bandgie]

That Seungmin ficccc 😍, if you can/ are comfortable with it can you do a mini part two when he does use y/n in her sleep, and slightly gaslights her into thinking it is a dream. Only if your comfy with that type of stuff. Amazing writing tho, have a good day!! 💙☺️

a/n: hi anon yes! thank you so much (fic anon is referring to here)

warnings: MDNI 18+, NONCON SOMNO, intoxication (fem!&male!), just read the ask man

1.1k words

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡

Truthfully, Seungmin just liked watching you sleep. It was just relaxing to him. How gently your chest would rise, how still you would be deep in slumber. You looked peaceful, content, pretty.

Just like now, though Seungmin's intentions are far less endearing. Both of you had drank a decent amount last night due to the baseball game on. No, you didn't know a whole bunch about the sport, but you'd never pass the opportunity to have a drink or two.

He's kneeling at your bed, watching your face. He's making sure there's no sign of you waking up, no twitch in your eyebrow to indicate that you're still somewhat awake. Seungmin deems you sound asleep once he blows on your face and you give no reaction.

Standing to his feet, Seungmin makes his way to the foot of the bed. He carefully places a knee on the bed, feeling how the cushion dips under his weight. He pauses for a few seconds before continuing, crawling over your lower half.

You're laying flat on your back, head turned to the side with your hands limp besides your head. Your nude legs are slightly parted, a simple underwear covering your cunt. Seungmin can see the mound, the sight making his mouth water.

He manages to get on his knees. Seungmin wastes no time in pulling his boxers down, pulling out his flaccid cock. 

This is wrong. This is dirty. Yet, he can't find it in himself to stop as he pulls your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you're so pretty. Your pussy lips tucked nicely, clearly not aroused in the slightest. Mindlessly, Seungmin pumps himself with his other hand. No amount of cameras could compare to the beauty of your physical body. So warm, so soft, so pliant. 

Seungmin carefully hovers over you just enough so the tip of his cock can rub against your clit. He quietly moans at the feeling of your hot cunt, daring to dip his dick just a little deeper.

Then you move, a quick jolt in your leg. 

He freezes, holding his breath as he patiently waits for you to stop moving. 

Idiot, he thinks. Of course she'll wake up.No, no. Not if you're careful.

Seungmin pulls his cock away from your cunt and replaces it with his thumb. Maybe his dick is too much, he might just as to settle with using his hand. 

He rubs your nub in gentle circles, round and round until he starts doing it to himself. 

What are you doing!? He screams at himself internally. Stop before you get caught! You won't get caught. The other voice soothes him. If you just do it slowly, she'll stay asleep.

The internal battle in Seungmin's mind persists. It seems as though he has a winner though, because his thumb had grown gold and dipped a little further. 

He can feel your entrance, how it slightly twitches. Seungmin has one hand rubbing your pussy and the other hand rubbing his cock. It's so easy for him to get lost in the feeling of your warm cunt and his building pleasure. He doesn't even seem to notice how much harder he's begun to rub circles and how you've started to stir awake. 

"Ughhh," you groan tiredly. It takes a long time for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. Your head slightly pounds from your abrupt wakefulness. You have to blink a few times before you make out the figure over you. 

"Seung?"

Oh shit. He stops. A million excuses run through his mind when he locks eyes with you. What should he say? What should he do? He can hear that same voice in his head saying 'I told you so' while the other is desperately trying to come up with lies.

"Sleeping," he finally manages to say. "It's just a dream. Shh~, go back to sleep."

You would normally question your dream Seungmin further, but the sleepy paradise you were in calls to your attention more. You nod drowsily, "Mmm, k." You lay your head comfortably on the pillow, relaxing your legs to let dream Seungmin continue.

"Feels good," you hum.

To say that Seungmin is shocked would be an understatement. He can't bother to move as he watches you fall back asleep. It looks as though you're smiling, as if happy he's there violating you. Maybe you are happy, you did say it felt good after all.

As a test, Seungmin places his tip back into your pussy, waiting to see you move.

You don't.

There's no patience in him while he humps you. His length sinks low enough to collect your slick before bringing it back up to your clit. Everything's gotten slippery, making it all the easier for Seungmin to glide his cock against you.

He uses one hand to apply pressure on his dick. He softly groans at the feeling. Seungmin's hips move at a quick pace, a complete 180 from how gentle he was previously being. This time, he wants to hear you, he wants to see how your body reacts to him.

Putting it in may be a bit too much. There's no way he could find his way out of that one. Even then, Seungmin is more than content to use with you like this.

You've started to move just a bit more. Hips jolting upwards and mewls leaving your tired lips. Your reactions get Seungmin riled up. The last remaining underwear you have is getting soaked in both of your arousals. It's soon to be soaked with his cum from how close he's getting.

Seungmin voices a sequence of moans before finishing on your cunt. The ropes of cum color you pussy a pretty milky white, your panties sharing the same hue. He uses his cock to spread the orgasm even more, watching how your pussy twitches from the stimulation.

It's not enough for Seungmin to get his cum on your clit no, he needs to put in you too.

With a slender finger, he collects droplets of cum before it vanishes deep into your cunt. He prods at your opening before sliding his finger in. 

Seungmin gasps at the feel of your pussy, how much it's convulsing. He feels bad for leaving it neglected. You wanted something to clench on so desperately, you're taking just one of his fingers so eagerly.

He thrusts the cum deep inside you, wiggling his digit within your walls. 

You whine when he pulls away, slipping your stick underwear back on. Seungmin shoves his half-hard dick into his boxers before getting off the bed. He makes sure to cover you with your sheets, he doesn't want you getting sick.

He does, however, leave you confused in the morning. You're sitting in crusted underwear from what you can only assume is your own cum. And a weird, vivid memory of Seungmin.

a/n: hope you liked it! and happy thanksgiving lmaoo

[cocoreallylovesraiden]

lin-kuei trio x chef! reader

pre-events of the mk1 cinematic; mostly with tomas that can be seen as platonic or romantic

ooc-ish? this is just my interpretation on how it would’ve been like before things got bad for the lin kuei

1.5k

You slide the plate of food onto the wooden lazy susan, quickly warning your guests not to touch the plate. Almost immediately, Kuai Liang decides to place his fingers on the plate’s underside.

You step back, unimpressed.

“With all due respect, Kuai Liang. Seriously?”

“You call this hot?”

Kuai Liang’s good-natured smile is useless against you, because yes, you call this hot; you had to carry it the entire way from the kitchen yourself because the Lin Kuei eat with in absolute privacy, and you also did not have FIRE POWERS. So yes, it was hot. You pointedly place one of two bowls of rice you brought before Tomas, who gleefully rubs his chopsticks together.

“Cease your antics, brother.” Kuai Liang chuckles at Bi Han’s almost embarrassed seething.

“Thank you, Bi Han. You get rice.”

The second bowl is (gingerly) placed before him. You would slam it down too for effect, but you would rather not be frozen alive for having bad manners with the new Grandmaster Of The Lin Kuei.

You internally roll your eyes at the title. Whatever, Bi Han was Bi Han at the end of the day. The brothers had come to the teahouse enough times for you to know that if you gave him food, he would be grateful and shut up to eat it- unless he was on another-

Bi Han pushes the bowl to Kuai Liang with a small motion before picking up his chopsticks.

“You’re on another diet.” You exclaim.

Kuai Liang accepts the bowl with a sigh, likely sharing the same sentiment. Tomas takes a morsel of the stir fry and hurriedly shoves it in his mouth to share his piece, but the food is too hot, and he makes a show of cooling his mouth. Bi Han’ sigh mirrors Kuai Liang’s prior one.

These brothers. It was like a chain reaction, where each one of them were disappointed in each other’s behaviour.

“The Grandmaster needs to be in tip-top shape to fit his grandmaster uniform.” Tomas chides. “So that his arms look good in- ACK!”

His statement is cut off by a small mound of rice being shoved into his mouth, courtesy of Kuai Liang. Whatever he meant to say was replaced by yelps of “Hot!” and whining. He eventually turns to you with an expectant look, like he was hoping you would come to his defence.

You shrug. What were you supposed to do? Scold a ninja-extraordinaire for lovingly feeding his brother? No, seriously. Your relationship with these people was extremely conditional, and there was no doubt they would put you in your place if you ever tried to boss them around.

Except Tomas. There was some leeway bossing Tomas around.

“Is there anything you want to eat today- not you Tomas.” You physically push away the cheeky man’s face to maintain your eye contact with Bi Han. “Since you three cleared out the place, my treat.”

Bi Han looked at his empty plate for a moment, as if he suddenly had forgotten every meal he’s ever enjoyed. You kissed your teeth, immediately understanding. You yourself were the oldest child, so you knew how it felt to suddenly be asked what you specifically wanted. Either that, or if he was considering cheating on his diet just to eat your fried pork.

“The sweet pork. That you made last time.”

Yeah, okay. It just was never as emotionally complicated as you expected it to be with him. Well, it was terribly flattering that he’d take up the precious calories to eat what you cooked- though it did make you question Bi Han’s resolve; you had never seen him in battle, so you couldn’t gauge his self-control other than him crumbling at the promise of your cooking.

Either way, you gave him a thumbs up and an appreciative grimace.

“Right away, boss.”

You scuttle back into the teahouse kitchen, where you thankfully had all the ingredients available. Thank God, there was no emergency calling Kung Lao for the delivery of flour or vinegar. What would that phone call sound like, even?

Hey bestie! Hope you’re not too busy harvesting cabbages because I need you to bring me a cup of sugar to make a meal for the grandmaster of an organised family! Yeah Grandmaster! Yeah, ‘family’! Hope to hear back from you soon!

Just as you’d gotten the oil up and frying, the jammed kitchen door tries to open with a groan. You settle the breaded pork into the ladle, throwing it into the bubbling oil with a satisfying sizzle. The door tries to open again, and it gets a little further before inevitably getting stuck once more.

You roll your eyes. With a single outstretched kick, you manage to send the damp wooden door to swing open like it was brand new, leaving Tomas standing there like a kid caught with his hand in the jam pots.

“Maybe we should recruit you into the Lin Kuei.” The silver-haired man allows himself into your kitchen, carefully side-stepping a hemp sack of flour then once again to avoid a crate of bok choy that toppled earlier in the day.

The kitchen was messy, but when there’s only one person to handle a mountain of orders you learn to improvise. It was a strategic layout that only you needed to understand.

“Nice of you to let yourself into my kitchen.”

“Thought I’d keep you company.” A lie. He just wanted to spend some time away from Kuai Liang and Bi Han, an understandable sentiment. The three of them probably spent too much time together leading the Lin Kuei, and Bi Han was insufferably stuffy to share meals with.

You whisked vinegar and sugar in a bowl, but arms worked in autopilot as you stared at Tomas making himself comfortable on the stool near you cooking station. It was comical, watching the tall man fold himself like origami paper to fit perfectly on such a small surface, tucking his knees to his chest and peering up at you like a child.

This stool wasn’t just any old chair, though. After a couple years, people like Tomas and Kung Lao had turned it into the taste tester’s throne since it was convenient for You to just raise your arm and feed them little bits.

As much as you wanted to be a stronger woman, his grey eyes and boyish smile did make your heart clench. He looked so much like San Bing, the stray dog that you fed in the village- they even begged for scraps the same way.

“You do the same thing as Kung Lao.” Tomas huffed at the comparison, resting his chin on the nearby counter’s greasy surface and blinking with his light glittery eyes.

“But cuter, right?”

You balked, almost letting missing your ladle’s handle and gripping scalding metal in shock. How ridiculous did this man get? At his grown age, acting cute just to gain you favour, all in the name for some bits and pieces? Seriously, if these were the values that the Lin Kuei taught, the world was in grave danger.

A tender piece of pork is pulled out the oil and dipped in the sauce, and then shoved in front of Tomas’ face in the effort to stop him from continuing whatever it was he was doing.

“Do that again, and I will ban you from coming in every again.” You gravely state, and it’s funny how quickly Tomas straightens his posture and nods. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

Tomas is also remarkably like San Bing with how he snatches the food into his mouth, chewing loudly in attempt to cool the food down as he eats it. You continue to fix up the rest of the portion while Tomas watches you, sitting obediently on the stool.

Once it’s on a medium-sized dish, Tomas beats you to picking it up.

“This isn’t just for you, greedy.”

“But the plates are hot, right? I’ll bring it over, don’t worry.”

Tomas smiles, nose wrinkling in a way that makes you want to pinch him. You thank him with a pat on the shoulder and helps him open the kitchen door and watch him walk over to his table. You then pretend not to see him slam the dish onto the table and frantically rub his probably burning fingers on Bi Han’s cold arms.

You bite back the growing grin on your face.

As much as you would’ve liked to hang around the three as they ate their meal, you still had an entire kitchen to clean (to the best of your ability) before the teahouse opened again for the dinner rush. You settle for occasionally peeking at the solely occupied table through the kitchen pick-up area, wholeheartedly laughing when Kuai Liang gives you a thumbs up after taking a bite of the pork. Bi Han gives you a nod, which you assume is as close to kissing him on the mouth as it gets. 

Just as you focus fully on preparing your produce, you miss Tomas waving his chopsticks in the air, but hear him enthusiastically call out your name. This time, you let yourself smile fully as you chop away at some carrots.

[ohsweetflips]

don’t mind me i’m just thinking abt how in yi city the lesson wei wuxian was teaching the juniors was to face their fears—and not let said fears impede them—and then in the second siege of the burial mounds, where it matters most, the juniors are not only the first ones rushing in alongside wangxian to fight the hordes of fierce corpses regardless of their fear, but are also working together as a cohesive group so that they can all survive instead of trying to fight this battle on their own

[dumpsterfire-daydreams]

Battle plans, protective König, protective Price, soldier König, soldier Price, TW: Physical Violence, TW: Sexual Assault, TW: Attempted rape, TW: Groping, TW: Forced orgasm, TW: Implied Physical Violence, TW: Kidnapping, TW: Hostage situations, TW: Physical Abuse

(Part 1)

Reader POV:

Once you were clean and your stomach was no longer hollering for attention, you drained the tub and sadly climbed to your feet. As you watched the dirty water begin to disappear down the drain, you were genuinely sad to see it go. It’s not like it hid you beneath its surface, but its presence definitely made you feel the slightest bit less exposed. The slightest bit less lonely. The slightest bit less scared. But it's not as if Ghost would tolerate you drawing a second bath right that second. He was still sitting there in the corner patiently waiting for König’s sacrificial little lamb to be washed clean. You kept your back to him as you rose in order to reclaim a small morsel of dignity and simultaneously deny his wandering eyes any more access than was necessary. As you shivered a bit at the sudden lack of warmth, you could hear him rise from his seat. The heavy footfalls of his combat boots thumped against the floor as he approached. But you were relieved when it was not his hands that touched you, but instead the soft fabric of a bath towel. It prodded lightly against your shoulder and you reached back to take it, but Ghost swept it out of your reach as soon as you did.

"Turn around," he ordered.

You frowned a bit, looking back at him in protest. "Ghost, I think I can dry myself off just fine."

But his eyes met yours in a challenging stare as he repeated himself slowly. Deliberately. And his tone made it clear this was not a request. It was a command.

"Turn. Around."

"Fine," you grumbled, keeping your eyes downcast as you turned to face him. All you wanted was a warm towel to stop your shivering. But you knew he would have gleefully left you there to shiver all night if that’s what it took to finally win your compliance. Everything was a fucking game to him.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it," he warned as he helped you step out of the tub. "We clear?"

"...Yes."

"Yes what?"

You paused, humiliation making a rapid return as your face burned. But Ghost gripped your chin between his thumb and index finger, raising your eyes to meet his glare as you corrected yourself. "Yes, sir."

After he let your chin fall back down to your chest, you stood there uncomfortable and annoyed as Ghost dried you off. He took his time tending to every inch of your figure, giving extra attention to the areas you wished he would have given the least. Your breasts, your groin, your hips, your ass. The way his hands moved beneath the towel in those places made it clear his focus was not on drying you off. To him, it was just another excuse to put his hands on you. And he was well aware it was an objective that you were in no place to stop.

He went to your breasts first. The towel carefully circled the swell of each one before he took the whole of it in his hand. His fingers pressed into your skin through the fabric as he gave it slow, intentional squeezes. The palms of his hands rubbed over the peaks of your nipples, stimulating them until they stiffened and pushed back against his touch.

Once satisfied there, he turned you around so that he could dry your back. But while he finished your back in just a few seconds, he spent an eternity tending to your ass. There was a lot of squeezing, rubbing, and groping there too. Occasionally, the towel would press in to spread the soft mounds of flesh around his hand. And you would feel his thumb drawing languid circles around a more forbidden entrance. An entrance he had not yet claimed, but seemed to be considering the longer he circled it with his touch.

Finally, he withdrew the towel and readjusted it to a section that was still dry. You yelped when he gave your ass a firm slap with his hand and he chuckled, enjoying the way the impact rippled out across the large expanse. But then, he pulled you back into his chest as his hands slipped around your hips to his final destination.

He didn’t waste time asking you to part your thighs. Instead, he was content to shove his knee between them from behind as he lowered the soft fabric to your groin. If his goal wasn’t to dry you off before, it certainly wasn’t now. Because his fingers guided the towel directly to your clit. Soon, he abandoned it entirely and let it drop to the floor, in favor of toying with the small nub of nerves with his bare fingers. And now that his other hand was free, he used it to grant himself a better view by parting the sensitive folds of surrounding skin.

“You just took a bath,” he hummed against your ear, looking over your shoulder to enjoy his own display. “But somehow you’re still dirty here.”

You moaned, pushing away from him. But with his firm chest behind you and his arms in front of you, there was quite literally nowhere to go. The bundle of nerves was even more sensitive than usual after last night. Just a few seconds of his touch was already making your knees threaten to buckle as you writhed against his hand, pushing forward against his arms as if to break free. But Ghost anticipated it, smoothly transitioning his supporting hand from your sex to your throat. Once there, he used it as leverage to pull you right back and held your head against his shoulder as he continued working his fingers below.

A loud whimper rang out as your whole body began to quiver. And obscene wet sounds filled the room as your body quickly responded. He’d successfully trained your body to associate his touch with pleasure. And it was a lesson that your mind could not overpower. You couldn’t stop your hips from softly bucking up to meet him, desperate for the incoming release. And before you could brace for it, it hit you full force.

“Fuck,” Ghost moaned with you as you climaxed without warning. His eyes watched hungrily as the the leg of his jeans went a darker shade of blue, the warm evidence of your orgasm streaming down his thigh. “That’s it princess. That’s my good girl.”

The effects of overstimulation quickly followed afterward. At first, you had simply been too sensitive. But now, your body was practically screaming for the pleasure to end as Ghost refused to slow his finger’s motion. Instead, he picked up pace. Your pleasure point throbbed, its swollen head almost painfully tender as it protruded slightly past your outer folds. His calloused fingers felt just rough enough against it that even the slightest contact made your body arch in his hold. And he wasn’t stopping.

“Ghost, I-ah!” You threw your head back in prolonged whine, gasping loudly. “I can’t!”

“I think you’ve got more in you,” he growled. “Do that for me again.”

“Ghost, please!”

“Again.”

You screamed as a second orgasm tore through you, the sensations so strong you felt like you were going to black out from the intensity. And behind you, you could hear Ghost curse as a fresh wave of moisture coated his leg. Your body completely spent, you let yourself slump back against him as the cycle of powerful spasms slowly subsided. As your legs went limp beneath you, his hand fell away from your groin, and he adjusted his hold. You were grateful for it, too. Because without his arms keeping you upright, you would have quickly collapsed to the ground at his feet.

Your chest heaved as he picked you up and hurriedly returned you to the bedroom. Once there, he laid your limp form on top of the blankets before he crawled onto the bed after you. He hovered over you, his eyes wild and ravenous. He looked like he was going to devour you whole. And the conspicuous bulge in his pants filled you with a new sense of dread. You had gone from feeling the slightest bit better to feeling utterly filthy in a matter of minutes. And from the look of his eyes, he was eager to finish what he started. But you tried to plead with him one last time.

“Ghost, I want to go home!” You cried, cowering in his shadow and curling up into a pitiful ball. “I want to go home!”

He recoiled in shock as if you’d struck him across the face. "You still want to go back?"

“Yes," you nodded, tears welling up. "Please?"

"Why would we go back? There's nothing there for you anymore. You said it yourself!"

"Because you forced me to!” You choked the words out, unable to stop the tears from spilling over your cheeks. “I didn’t have a choice!"

Ghost was seething as he snarled at you. "After everything I’ve shown you? The life we could have together? You still want to go crawling back to him?”

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Ghost, I love him!”

Ghost’s eyes darkened as he sat up, pure hatred coming off him in waves as he glared down at you.

"And here I was thinking you were doing so well. Thinking you were finally seeing things my way. Thinking you deserved a reward. But it looks like you still need a bit more convincing."

You screamed at full volume as Ghost grabbed a fistful of your hair and dragged you off the bed behind him. You hit the ground with a thud and continued to scream as Ghost dragged across the bedroom floor. No matter how terrifying you found him one moment, he always managed to outdo himself sometime in the future. He was brutal, he was merciless, and he was determined to get his way. These things were certain at this point. But what you feared now was far more terrifying than any of those things. You feared your most recent rejection had finally pushed him past the point of no return. You feared that this man was actually going to kill you.

I know this story includes some pretty dark themes. But at the end of the day, I care more about the well-being of my readers than I do for hits or kudos. Period. I never want my writing to conjure up emotions or feelings that negatively impact you beyond the story. This story can be dark and uncomfortable at times. But it is always intended strictly for fun and fantasy. If at any point along the way it stops being a pleasurable experience, please please close this page and walk away. My stories are never worth your well-being, loves.

[mychlapci]

Planetfucker scenario? I'll try my best! If this is a hit, I'll write a (weird-birth-stuff) part 2! :D

AU where at the very start of the war, when Orion first acquired the Matrix, tensions were so high that he could not reasonably abandon his Autobots to spend Primus knows how many cycles on Earth appeasing the Unmaker… After many lengthy debates with the high council and his closest confidants, shockingly Prowl volunteered to go in his stead.

Prowl, young but pragmatic, argues that it's for the best. The Autobots need a leader, which Prowl is not. What he is is knowledgeable, quick witted, and level headed. He's perfectly capable of impersonating a Prime for the union rituals. Maybe he underestimated the task, or maybe he simply doesn't trust anyone else to do it right. 

Optimus protests at first, but eventually concedes… and Prowl is sent to Earth in his stead. 

He makes a stunning bride, clad from helm to peds in traditional crystal jewelry. Prime dresses Prowl himself, hanging glimmering heirloom jewels from his doorwings and stringing beaded necklaces around his neck and waist as he guiltily laments his decision to let Prowl shoulder one of his sworn duties. He accompanies Prowl all the way to Earth, bidding his friend goodbye, goodluck, and thanks before returning to Cybertron.

Upon arrival, Prowl finds himself standing at the maw of a grand cavern hidden deep within a mountainous region of Earth. The air emanating from inside is warm and humid. He enters cautiously, descending a winding path to the heart of the cave system.

The further he walks, the more he swears he can sense the walls around him pulsing in a faint but constant rhythm… The Unmaker knows he’s here.

He traverses a series of neverending tunnels, relying on his senses and pure instinct to lead him through the maze-like system. The further he walks, the more oppressive the heat and humidity becomes, the walls seem to narrow and close in around him. Black creeps into the corners of his vision, and a thick fog of static clouds his processor the closer he draws to Unicorn's core. He's barely aware of the gradual charge steadily building in his array until he feels slick seeping from the seams of his panel. 

Hours, or maybe days pass. By the time he reaches the core, he's enveloped in nauseating heat, swaying with every step as his vision swims in and out of focus. The walls pulse around him in a steady rhythm, lulling him deeper into a haze. 

Dim biolights cast the small central chamber in a warm red glow, every surface inside is made of plush organic matter. At the center of the Unmaker’s core is an engorged mass of flesh and tangled tendrils, eggs shifting visibly beneath its surface, with something resembling a valve at its center. 

Prowl’s whole frame feels feverish, his breath coming out in ragged pants as a sweet, heady scent assails his senses. His panels snap open, lubricant gushing down his trembling thighs and his spike already fully pressurized. He collapses over the mound before he can stop himself. 

His head is pounding as he pants and moans against the soft organic matter. He can't think, but he knows what to do. The countless crystals which adorn his frame gleam beneath the pulsating biolights around him, chiming and jingling with every quiver of his doorwings, reflecting a kaleidoscope of shifting red and pink lights all around the chamber. 

His bleary optics are transfixed on the pretty lights as he feebly ruts his spike into the slick, hot valve of the Unmaker. He doesn't last very long… but here, mere seconds feel like an eternity. And he doesn't stop after the first overload. He pumps load after load of transfluid into Unicron's greedy valve, sobbing and shaking as his spike is milked in time with the rhythm of the pulsing lights around him. 

Eventually, he collapses over the plush bed of tendrils and fleah, his battle computer offline and higher functions failing him as the rhythmic throb of the lights and walls flood his senses. 

Prowl’s half-hard spike is still buried in the Unmaker’s valve. He’s on the verge of unconsciousness when he feels a thin, slimy tendril coiling around his leg. Then another, caressing his jaw, slimy and sluggish as it slides over his face like a long, deft tongue. The cavern around him rumbles, a pleased purr emanating from the Unmaker as it maps out Prowl's features. More join, caressing his frame and playing with the pretty jewels that adorn it. 

When the first tentacle finds his valve, Prowl nearly short circuits. His inner callips eagerly cycle around the digit, coaxing it further inside as his anterior node throbs with charge. Two more join the first, pumping in and out of his valve, twisting together and writhing within him before pulling apart and shamelessly spreading him wide open. Prowl whines weakly at the sensation, mind numbing static smothering any discomfort and leaving only dull aching pleasure in its wake. 

A new tendril emerges from the nest beneath him, thick and slimy as it slides against the curve of his aft. It lines up with his gaping hole, easing its way inside with no difficulty. Prowl squeals as it hits his ceiling node with the first slow, deep thrust. 

Unicron sets a steady pace, pounding Prowl's sloppy valve in a maddening rhythm. Prowl jerks and bucks his hips with every drag against his calipers, grinding his spike against the Unmaker’s valve as he squirms and wriggles in its hold. He's held in place by countless tendrils, they coil around his limbs and wriggle against his plating. One finds its way to his mouth, sliding against his glossa before finally fucking his throat in earnest.

Prowl’s vaguely aware of the mass beneath him shifting, the massive clutch of eggs inside moving and deprleting as the thick tentacle in his valve forces its way deeper, bullying the seal of his gestation tank until it finally gives.

His vision goes white, his cries muffled by the tendril in his mouth as the one in his valve suddenly expands. 

Prowl’s calipers are spread wide around the first of many eggs as they're pumped into his gestation tank one after another. For what feels like an eternity, he lays twitching, writhing, and in a near constant state of overload as his sloppy valve swallows Unicron’s clutch. His midriff swells and distends as his spike drools transfluid in a near constant stream, leaking all over the Unmaker's remaining eggs which the tendril promptly pumps into his valve to incubate. 

By the time Unicron is finished, Prowl’s a twitching, drooling mess. All he can do is whine and twitch against the bed of flesh beneath him, engulfed in a mass of writhing tentacles which leaves no spot on his frame untouched…

When Prowl finally emerges from the caves, he has no concept of how much time has passed. He gradually regains cognition, only to realize how much his frame has changed. The seams of his plating are caked with strange sweet slime, his hips are wider… And most obviously, his stomach is horribly distended, awkwardly impeding his gait. 

All he can do is slowly waddle out into the open, the few crystals which still hang from his doorwings jingling with every trundle.

He rests his weary frame atop a flat slab of rock as he absentmindedly activates a locater beacon. Though his mind is mostly clear now, he can't fight the overwhelming urge to return to Cybertron to birth his mate’s brood…

-🦴

ohhHh buddy this was a fucking banger. extremely funny confession, i haven’t even considered Unicron getting his brides pregnant yet ahsjjskhshhk

I love everything about this, the way entering Unicron only makes Prowl more and more hazy and horny, the way time passes slowly and sludge-like and his processor feels so overwhelmed with sensation, Unicron’s valve beckoning him forth, tendrils slipping egg after egg into Prowl until he’s overloading constantly without a break….

mhmmm Prowl comes back to Cybertron bearing the spawn of his new conjux, and Optimus can't help but think about how it was him who was supposed to be in Prowl's role right now, birthing Unicron's brood....

[candycandy00]

The Doll House - A Nanami x Reader Fanfic Part 2

Despite your crippling fear of men, your family sells you to the Doll House. Luckily, you end up with the handsome, gentlemanly Nanami as your trainer, and he’s about to show you how great a man can be.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Read Geto’s Part Here!

Read Toji’s Part Here!

Read Sukuna’s Part Here!

Read Gojo’s Part Here!

Read Choso’s Part Here!

AU! Each trainer will get their own story! This is Nanami’s. If you’d like to be tagged in future parts, let me know! You must be an adult to be tagged! Any feedback whatsoever is adored! I’m keeping the same tag list as Geto’s part. If you’d like to be removed, please let me know!

Note: Consider these parts AU’s within an AU. So you might see Geto with a different doll from the reader in his part, but just consider this an alternate timeline lol.

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Daddy kink. Hair pulling. Oral sex. Fingering. Spanking (with belt). First time sex. Aftercare! Divider by @benkeibear!

There’s a battle raging inside you. On one side of the conflict, terror. There’s a man on top of you, his heavy, strong body pressing onto yours. You feel panic rising, and you struggle to beat it back down. On the other side of the conflict, thirst. This man is quite literally all your fantasies come to life. His shirt is halfway unbuttoned, revealing a perfectly toned chest, and his blonde hair is slightly mussed, falling in his intense eyes. 

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, the third time this afternoon. He wants to be absolutely positive you want this, bless him. 

Earlier, you told him you were ready to have sex with him, to get your first time done and over with so you can move on with the training. Both of you view it as a bit of an annoyance to get through. You know you’ll be much more comfortable with the training once you’ve had sex once and know what to expect, and Nanami has outright told you that he dislikes sex with virgins. 

“It’s too easy to hurt or embarrass or disappoint them,” he said. “They’re either scared, which is a turn off for me, or they have completely delusional romantic fantasies about it, which no one can ever live up to in reality.”

Personally, you’ve never had any expectations for your first time. You always assumed you’d be a virgin your whole life, considering your phobia. So you neatly fall into the first category: scared. The act of sex doesn’t scare you that much, but being so close and intimate with a man does. However, with Nanami, you think you can do it. He’s promised to be gentle with you, and you believe him, so now you’re in his bed, underneath him, your shirt and skirt discarded.  

“I’m sure,” you tell him, raising up from the mattress to let him unhook your bra and pull it off your shoulders. His hands move softly over your breasts, only lightly squeezing the plump mounds. And then he’s sliding your panties down your hips and off your ankles. It’s embarrassing, but he agreed to your request for dim lighting, so you hope he can’t see every detail clearly. 

He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, then pulls it off his shoulders. Now you’re regretting the lighting choice. From what you can see, he’s absolutely gorgeous. You can’t help gasping for air as he slides down the bed and spreads your legs apart, positioning his face right above your pussy. His fingers stroke your wet folds, then open them. In the semi-darkness, you only see his head dip down, and then you feel his tongue gliding over your clit. 

Your hands grip the sheets as you cry out, your body shocked by the pleasure. He slowly pushes one finger inside you, gently pumping it in and out, giving you time to adjust to it. A few moments later, he inserts a second finger, his tongue still lapping at your clit. You’ve read enough smutty stories to know what he’s doing. He’s preparing you to take his cock. Of course he would make sure you’re slick and slightly stretched. He doesn’t want this to hurt. 

Pain is the last thing on your mind as his thumb grazes over your clit, followed by his lips closing around it. Your back arches off the bed, one of your hands automatically moving to his head, where your fingers slide through his hair. Just when you’re on the verge of cumming, he suddenly stops and draws back. You whine at the loss of his mouth between your legs, but then you realize he’s sitting up on his knees, and lifting your hips up into his lap. You feel his tip touch your entrance, and panic wins the battle. 

“Snowcone! Snowcone!”

He stops immediately and pulls back away from you. “Are you alright?”

You sit up and take a few deep breaths. “I just need a minute. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Take all the time you need.”

You sit there for a few minutes, just breathing and calming yourself down. When you feel ready, you say, “Okay, let’s do it.”

He looks at you skeptically. “Are you certain?”

Oh no, he’s going to stop! You just wanted a moment to mentally prepare. Your body is totally ready! Your pussy is drenched. You’re very horny, and he basically edged you just now. You have to do something to show him how much you want this. 

He’s glancing around for his discarded shirt as he says, “We could try again tomorrow or-“

You suddenly lie back on the mattress and part your legs. “Please fuck me, Daddy!”

His eyes widen, and then he’s on you again, his hands roaming all over your body, his mouth on your throat. Looks like you’ve figured out how to flip his switch! Instead of using the same position as before, he pushes your legs up, bending them at the knee, folding you in half. This pose leaves you extremely vulnerable, and you worry that you got him a little too riled up. 

As you feel his tip at your entrance again, you look up at him with your most innocent expression and say, “Don’t forget to be gentle with me.”

He looks down at you with a heated gaze. “I’ll take good care of you,” he says. And then, you feel him slowly enter you. 

He’s so careful, so gentle, watching your face for any signs of pain, but it doesn’t hurt. In fact it feels really good, the way his skin rubs against yours. But as he goes deeper, way deeper than you imagined a man could reach, you do feel your body stretching around him. For a moment, there’s discomfort, but it’s quickly replaced by pleasure as he kisses your mouth and gives a few shallow thrusts. The friction feels amazing, the angle making it so that he’s brushing across your sensitive clit. 

You look up at his face, and it’s obvious that he’s holding back, not wanting to hurt you. His features are slightly strained, his jaw clenched, his eyes lusty, his muscles taut under his skin. You want to see that control of his slip, just a little. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself closer to him so you can say into his ear, “You can be rougher with me. I can take it.”

He looks down at you, and you can see it in his eyes - he wants to absolutely rail you. But he’s too kind to do that, at least for now. He probably doesn’t want to make your fear of men worse. You’re not afraid of him though. Maybe every other man on earth, but not him. Not now, in this moment. “Please, Daddy,” you whine, and that seems to work. His thrusts become deeper, harder, and your grip on his neck tightens. 

You cry out as he pushes into you more deeply than ever, and it strikes you that you couldn’t possibly be any closer to a man than this, with your bodies pressed together and him buried inside you. The friction against your clit is driving you wild, your body jerking with his movements. You clutch his neck, hiding your face in his shoulder as you finally climax, whimpering and shuddering. 

His thrusts slow as you tremble against him, becoming even deeper, but more deliberate, more intimate, finally stopping with him completely inside you, as far in as possible. He goes still, waiting until your body recovers, letting you feel totally full of him. And then, once your trembling has stopped, he begins thrusting again, faster, a little rougher. Finally, you feel his cock twitch inside you, then his warm, thick cum shoot into the deepest parts of your body. 

Afterwards, he pulls out slowly and climbs off of you, giving you space. He waits a few moments for you to catch your breath, then asks, “How do you feel?”

You’re too embarrassed to say “Fucking Amazing!” so you simply smile and say, “I feel good.”

He smiles back. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“No, not at all,” you tell him. Once, you read online that your first time doesn’t hurt if the man knows what he’s doing. Apparently Nanami does. 

He lays down beside you and puts one arm around you, pulling you closer. A few days ago, this would have terrified you. Now, you just feel warm as you drift off to sleep curled up to his side. 

******************

A few days later, Nanami is pulling a book from his shelf to read before bed when his doll approaches and stares at the perfectly arranged and displayed books, her eyes sweeping over the spines. 

“You sure have a lot of books,” she says. 

He’s heard that before. Many times. “Yes, I do,” he replies. “What about you? Do you like to read?” He’s already prepared for the answer. Most dolls he trains answer with some variation of, “I liked reading when I was a kid/teenager, but I never really have time anymore.” He doesn’t like that answer very much. If you like reading, you’ll make time somehow, even if you just read one book a year. 

“I love reading!” she says, and he stifles a groan. The second most common answer he gets is this exact line. But further conversation almost always reveals that, no, they do not actually love reading. They simply said so because they thought it was the answer he wanted to hear.  

He gives her a thin smile. “You do? What sorts of books do you like?” This is where the lie is normally revealed. 

She points to a twelve book high fantasy series on his shelf - The Queen of Lake Frost. “This is actually one of my favorite series,” she says. “I’ve read every book at least ten times each!” 

He looks from the books to her smiling face, surprised. 

Before he can respond, she goes on. “Princess Rhoswen is my favorite character. I was really rooting for her to become the next queen, but I guess she wouldn’t have been happy on the throne.”

Wait, he’s heard this before, almost word for word. Then it hits him, the memory of a cold, snowy afternoon in high school, his best friend beside him, chattering about this book series. This friend was the reason Nanami even tried the books in the first place. Back then, he’d seen himself as “too good” for speculative fiction. But his friend loved adventurous fantasy stories, and convinced him to try this series in particular. Nanami had enjoyed them much more than he expected to, the pleasure increased by his friend excitedly discussing the books with him as he finished them. 

He gives his doll a warm, genuine smile. “Rhoswen was my best friend’s favorite character too.”

She perks up. “Oh? They have good taste then!”

“Had,” he corrects. “He died in a car accident before we graduated. I can’t help thinking of him every time I read this.”

Her smile fades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

“Oh no, all the memories are fond ones,” he says. Then he points to another fantasy series, one shelf down. “Have you read this one?”

She bends slightly to look at the title. “Yeah, I liked it too. I heard they’re making a movie based on it.”

They go through several more series, discussing each one briefly, and it’s almost like Haibara is there with him again, talking about his favorite scenes and characters. The doll gets really animated when discussing these books, her face glowing. Nanami thinks, in this moment, she’s very cute. 

He finally finds a series she hasn’t read yet, The Stormlight Archive. “I’ve been meaning to try it,” she says, “I like a lot of other books by this author.”

Nanami pulls the first book in the series down from the shelf. “Would you like to read it while you’re here?”

She takes the offered book. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

She smiles brightly. “Thanks!”

That night before bed, when Nanami is sitting in his chair reading his chosen book, his doll is curled up in the chair across from him, her legs tucked under herself, the book open in her hands. He watches her face for a while, the different emotions crossing it telling him which parts she’s reading. He’s looking forward to discussing the book with her when she finishes. 

**********************

Nearly two weeks into the training, you realize Nanami has yet to spank you. 

During sex, or related activities, he often pulls your hair. You enjoy the sensation of his strong hand, firm but not harsh, gripping the strands, guiding your head where he wants it to be. But you’re so so so curious about how he would be when he’s mad, when you’ve been a bad girl and he needs to “punish” you. He’s always so kind and respectful to you, a perfect gentleman even when he’s holding your face up by your hair and covering it in his cum. 

So you decide to test him, to be a bad girl for once and see how he reacts. The perfect opportunity presents itself one afternoon when he has to leave the Doll House to run an errand. He’ll be back in an hour, he tells you, and your plan clicks into place. 

One of the very few rules he laid out for you was that you were not to pleasure yourself. Your pleasure should only come from him, as a reward for being good. So far, he hasn’t held out on you at all. He makes you cum multiple times per day. But what will he do when you break that simple rule? 

You wait until it’s almost time for him to come back, then you get on the bed and open your legs. You’re so nervous you could die, but the thrill of it all urges you to go forward with your scheme. You slip your hand down the front of your shorts, under your panties, and begin touching yourself. The excitement and tension make it easy to become aroused, your fingers slick within seconds. And when you hear Nanami’s footsteps in the hall before the doorknob turns, you almost cum on the spot. 

The door opens. Nanami walks through and closes it behind him, taking off his jacket in the process and not noticing you until he turns to face the bed. He stops suddenly, his eyes freezing on your prone form. You quickly stop, pulling your hand out of your shorts, acting like you’ve been caught, your body already quivering with excitement. 

“I believe I explained the rules to you,” he says, his voice low, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. 

You can’t hold back a squeak of fear as you scramble out of bed. “I’m sorry! I just felt needy… and you were gone… so I couldn’t help myself.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. He knows exactly what you’re doing, knows you’re testing him, knows you want him to punish you. And he won’t disappoint you. 

He loosens his tie as he says, “Get back on the bed, on your hands and knees. Face the headboard.”

You hesitate just a moment, your mind processing the command and where it’s going to lead. He gives you a look. The kind that says he’s in no mood for questions. So you climb back onto the bed and assume the position he described. 

“Raise your ass higher,” he says, circling around to the foot of the bed. Then you feel his hands on you, pulling both your shorts and your panties down your hips and then yanking them off under your knees. You hear them fall to the floor somewhere behind you. 

“Spread your knees apart,” he tells you, and you immediately comply, your face heating up. Nanami has seen you naked plenty of times, but something about this pose is extra embarrassing. With your ass in the air and your thighs spread, your pussy is practically on display. And considering how wet you are, it must be an incredibly lewd sight. 

You hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt, and you turn your head to look back. “Face forward,” he says in a commanding voice. “Put your hands on the headboard, and don’t let go.”

The headboard is made of brass, with vertical bars all the way across. You grip two of them in your hands, your fingers trembling slightly. There’s a pause where nothing happens. No sounds, no sensations. It only makes the tension thicker. You want desperately to look behind you, to see what he’s doing, but you don’t dare. 

Then, you feel his hand on you. His palm slides over your ass, gently, tracing your shape. His fingers ghost over your slick pussy, and you whimper, wishing he would rub you. His hand pulls away, and you hear what sounds like leather being gripped or twisted in his strong hands. Then, impact. 

The belt hits your ass, crossing both cheeks. The leather stings, causing you to yelp and shudder, your grip on the brass bars tightening. Three more hits, and you can feel it: the soreness settling in. It’s not unbearable, but it does hurt. Fortunately, it hurts in a way that turns you on even more. When a hit gets particularly close to your pussy, you flinch and gasp. 

He stops for a moment, his hand returning to your body to rub the raw flesh. His fingers slip down to your dripping cunt and slide between your folds, stroking your clit. You cry out, moaning and shaking, your hands nearly slipping from the headboard. 

When he withdraws his hand again, you whine out, “Daddy, please!”

You hear his voice behind you. “Please what?”

You’re clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. “Please… fuck me!”

Another hit with the belt comes suddenly across your ass, making you cry out again. You moan, arching your back. You’ve never wanted anything more than you want his cock inside you right now. 

“I believe I told you that bad girls don’t deserve pleasure,” he says, moving around the bed, back to the other side. “And you’ve been a very bad girl.”

Another hit, this one striking you right across your exposed pussy, stinging the sensitive skin, making your whole body jolt and tears wet your eyes. “Ahhh! Please, Daddy… let me prove I can be a good girl for you!”

There’s another pause, then you hear his voice again, further away this time. “Alright then. Prove it.”

You hesitantly glance back, only to find him sitting in his chair, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, his expensive-looking leather belt gathered in his hand. Oh fuck, he looks so hot. You let go of the brass bars, only then realizing that your hands are shaking. You calm yourself down and crawl off the bed. Your shirt isn’t long enough to cover anything below the waist, so you’re half naked as you walk over to him and drop to your knees. 

Looking up at him with what you hope are bedroom eyes, you nuzzle your face against his crotch for a moment before opening his pants and pulling his raging erection free. It looms over your face, glistening. You waste no time wrapping your lips around it, pressing your tongue into the tip. You’ll show him how good you can be. 

*******************

Nanami watches his doll greedily suck his cock, using every ounce of his willpower to remain cool and collected. In truth, he wants to take her to the bed and fuck her brains out, but he has to keep to his role. She wants a reaction from him, a “punishment”, and who was he to deny her? 

He’s surprised by how good she’s gotten with her mouth in such a short time. He’s barely had to give her any coaching at all. Considering she’s never even touched a man before meeting him, it’s really quite impressive. For a while now he’s suspected that she watched a lot of porn before coming here. Sometimes she says or does things that seem odd from a woman who has always been terrified of men. Not that Nanami is complaining. 

Presently, his cock is halfway down her tight little throat as she gags around it, saliva and precum smeared all over her pretty face. He holds out as long as he can, but eventually his own desire wins out. He gently pushes her back and stands up, pulling her to her feet and leading her back to the bed. He bends her over it, softly pushing her face-first onto the mattress, her feet still on the floor. 

With one hand, he caresses her red-striped ass, his fingers grazing over the places where the belt hit her. He’s always careful with how much pressure he applies with the belt, never enough to do any damage but always enough to sting. These marks will be gone in a few days, as if they were never there to begin with, but for now, they make an alluring image. 

Her pussy is dripping wet, her arousal gliding down her thighs. In one fluid motion, he buries himself inside her, so deep that she gasps and clenches around him. She feels incredible, so soft and warm and wet. Her moans and cries are so sweet to his ears. After just a few thrusts, she’s trembling with pleasure, crying as she clutches the sheets in her hands, finally cumming. 

He fucks her through her orgasm, his hand automatically squeezing her plump ass, making her jerk slightly. Damn, he forgot she’s probably sore. He massages her gently instead, until she’s making cute little mewling sounds. All of it is enough to make him cum as well, filling her up until he’s completely emptied himself inside her. 

Once finished, he pulls out and then rolls her over onto her back. She’s still wearing a T-shirt, white with some sort of cartoon character on it. She pants as she looks up at him, her face hot and streaked with tears. He hopes they’re tears of pleasure. 

“Are you alright?” he asks her, taking one of her hands and pulling her up so that she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, and he notices that she’s still a little shaky. This isn’t a totally uncommon response to a first “punishment” session, even when the doll he’s training intentionally provokes him. But considering her phobia, it does concern him to see her looking so frightened. 

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” 

She seems surprised by the question, but he doesn’t want to invade her space without warning if she’s feeling afraid of him. 

“Sure,” she says, and he sits on the bed beside her. 

“Did I scare you?”

She shakes her head. “No, not at all. It was just a little intense. I enjoyed it though.”

He’s relieved to hear it. “I’m glad. Are you okay with doing it again, if the opportunity presents itself?”

She gives him a small grin. “You mean if I’m bad again?”

He grins back, happy to see that she’s back to her normal self, no longer shaking. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

She seems a little shy as she leans over onto him, placing her head on his shoulder. “I’d like to do it again. But now I have to think of things to do to make you mad.”

He wraps an arm around her. “Don’t go overboard. You want to be able to sit in a chair at some point, don’t you?”

She laughs, then snuggles closer to him, looking satisfied. He’s trained many beautiful women over the past few years, but none have made him feel so content just to be near them, none have made him feel the way she does. He tries to ignore the feelings. He needs to be professional. He owes it to her to take his job seriously and prepare her for her role as a doll. 

But right now, he just wants to have her by his side. 

Tag List:

@suguguro @kaedear @onyxsphynx @poopoobuttsy @butterskyy @collectionofdolls @akaotv @witchbybirth @bloofinntoona @wasurenagusaa @tclbts @tojirin @lucyrocks86 @badbyeyoongi @97britt @aydene @lzaj19��@lyn-lotte @missthatgirl @peachedtv @ladytamayolover @nanam1nx @deegausserr

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away. 

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed. 

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade. 

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all. 

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration. 

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant. 

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky. 

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too. 

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips. 

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice. 

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him. 

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between. 

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted. 

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries. 

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces. 

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart. 

Now is the time to flee. 

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling. 

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind! 

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin. 

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.” 

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission. 

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him. 

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched. 

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act –  it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over. 

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit. 

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants. 

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks. 

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses. 

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes. 

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides. 

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself. 

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’. 

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage. 

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons. 

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction. 

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface. 

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern. 

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!? 

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle. 

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side. 

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire. 

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground. 

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear. 

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance. 

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos. 

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants. 

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were. 

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately. 

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running. 

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace. 

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all. 

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea. 

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails. 

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls… 

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions. 

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him. 

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum. 

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet. 

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable. 

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy. 

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge. 

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk. 

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die? 

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature. 

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile. 

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection. 

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest. 

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant. 

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime. 

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding. 

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted. 

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration. 

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it. 

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust. 

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more. 

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient. 

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink. 

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time. 

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him. 

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here. 

[moirindeclermont]

Kinktober day 3: face sitting and intercrural sex;

To be honest, this could also be an episode of "All Polin's First Times We Didn't See in BridgertonS3 " so let's just make a special edition that combines both (as always, when it comes to choosing... I'm not that good lol). Enjoy!

"Pen, do you trust me?"

"What kind of question is it? I trust you with my life."

"Then, let's try this."

Apparently, his wife was scared of trying something in the bedroom department.

She didn't want to sit on his face, because she didnt want to suffocate him.

First of all, what a way to go. But Colin didn't say that, afraid of startling her.

Instead, he tried to reassure her.

"I'm serious Pen. I hear you and your concerns for my own safety. If I can find a way to sign to you I need to breathe, would you be able to try and maybe enjoy it?"

She nodded. That was why Colin had a small bell in his hand as he lie down.

Pen was looking at him, shaking her head.

"You never know when to give up, do you?" But it was more humorous than a worried tone. They were both naked, his mouth already watering at the prospect.

Pen knelt over his head, his free hand went immediately to touch her gorgeous, lushious thigh - her hands were against the headpost of the bed. She felt the first touch of Colin tongue on her and she resisted the temptations of going further down as she gasped for the pleasure.

It was not the first time they practice this, but it was the first time in that position.

She tried to keep still as Colin started to lick on her folds.

She should have knows it was a losing battle. Colin knew all the secrets of her pleasure and was merciless in using them. It didn't take long for her to move her hips on his face, grinding her mounds against his nose as he sucked and licked, making her seeing stars. She was griping the headpost so tight as her release washed over her the first time.

After that, the bell was forgotten and discarded, as for Colin didn't seem to want to stop.

He kept going on her, his tongue inside her, as with his hands he knead her thighs, making her sinking further onto him. Her second release was an explosion, having her moaning and whining loudly as she seeked her own pleasure.

Colin let her go with a light smack on her ass that made her whine again. She was lightheaded as she lie down next to him.

His face glistening with her juices. She took a warm towel and lightly cleaned him.

"Yes, you were right," she said, exasperated.

Colin was palming his own erection, as he watched her taking vare of him.

"Wife. I have an idea," he said with that tone that made her tingle all over.

"Do you trust me?" He asked again that night and she just nodded, he clearly had a point before.

He turned her around, spreading her legs.

"I'm too sensitive -" she tried to say but Colin just kissed her. "I know. Don't worry."

He gathered some of the wetness still on her and spread it on her thighs, along with. touch of the oil they used for massages.

Then, he put his dick in between her thigh. "Close your leg love," he asked and "oh," she said as she felt him sliding.

She felt him pushing and thrusting.

"Please touch my boobs," she asked and Colin was quick to comply, her lust renew as his thrusts went deeper and faster.

He rolled her nipples in between his fingers as she tried to give him more pleasure by squeezing her thighs together.

"Yes...Pen, exactly like that"

His release caught both of them by surprise, as she felt wet in between her thighs and Colin shouted.

She was wet again. Only her husband could make her wet while still being so sensitive.

He collapsed on her side, caressing her waist slowly.

"Thank you, love."

"Don't thank me yet, Colin. I'm wet again and it's all your fault."

Colin laughed, turning her over again for a kiss.

"What do you want to do?"

"Can you just cuddle me? I don't think I can handle another release, no matter what my body say..."

He smiled, the smile that had her fall in love with him so many years ago, and open up his arms.

"Come here, I'll lull you to sleep. And if you're still wet in the morning... We can do something about it"

She rested her head again his chest, her favorite place to be.

As her hands caressed his chest, she can feel him going over a light slide on her naked back.

"Colin?"

"Yes, love of my life"

"I kinda want to go back in time and talk with my younger self. Telling her that waiting is worth it."

He looks at her and kisses her again.

"She already knew it, I'm sure of it."

[qiu-yan]

my personal jiang cheng morality wank

things i do kind of side-eye jiang cheng for:

trying to strangle wei wuxian after the fall of lotus pier

torturing wen chao to death with wei wuxian

not suggesting to wei wuxian and the wen remnants that the wen remnants change their names and go into hiding, instead of living super conspicuously together in the burial mounds. i side-eye mxtx for this one more tho bc it does kind of seem like the option just never occurred to her

being rude to wen ning when he and jiang yanli secretly visited wei wuxian in the burial mounds to show wei wuxian yanli's wedding robes

saying that wei wuxian caused jiang yanli's death

not just participating in, but leading the first siege of the burial mounds

not being more openly affirming of jin ling

placing incredibly high expectations for achievement on jin ling that jin ling feels pressured to fulfill

not doing more for the common people of yunmeng as leader of the yunmeng jiang sect

calling jin guangyao a son of a whore

not telling wei wuxian how he actually lost his golden core

things i do not blame jiang cheng for:

trying to keep wei wuxian from harassing lan wangji during the cloud recesses lectures

telling wei wuxian to mind how the latter's actions reflect on yunmeng jiang

being verbally acerbic to wei wuxian

holding wei wuxian back after wen chao tried to use mianmian as living bait in the xuanwu cave

telling wei wuxian not to stick his neck out for lan wangji and mianmian and getting annoyed when he did

blaming wei wuxian for the fall of lotus pier

not realizing that wei wuxian was lying about baoshan sanren

not realizing that wei wuxian no longer had a golden core

being okay with jiang yanli marrying jin zixuan

not officially standing by wei wuxian and the wen remnants, and instead publicly expelling wei wuxian from the yunmeng jiang sect

stabbing wei wuxian in the abdomen during their public break-up fight

blaming wei wuxian for jin zixuan's death

being angry with wei wuxian over jiang yanli's death

any rumors and/or hearsay about the alleged torture and execution of demonic cultivators

""""abusing'""" jin ling

trying to exorcise wei wuxian's spirit from mo xuanyu's body with zidian

using fairy the dog to confirm wei wuxian's identity in qinghe

being verbally acerbic to jin ling

threatening to break jin ling's legs

smacking jin ling when jin ling kept trying to rush into battle at the second siege of the burial mounds

being angry with wei wuxian and lan wangji for entering his ancestral hall

physically fighting back when wei wuxian turned the verbal confrontation at the ancestral hall into a physical one

not somehow figuring out the truth of the golden core reveal any time before wen ning told him about it

being upset with wei wuxian for not telling him about the golden core transfer

being upset that wei wuxian broke his promise to be the twin heroes of yunmeng with jiang cheng

[youhideastar]

WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 29

Since this is my favorite episode, I’m making room for three topics in this one!

First, I often focus in these posts on moments when a rewatch shows me I’m remembering something wrong, and this episode has a big one: I am very guilty of thinking that Wei Wuxian, all by his genius self, brought Wen Ning back.

But is that true? This episode has the scene where Wen Ning returns to life/consciousness, following a pretty lengthy (by this show’s standards) battle with Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. The thing that struck me about it this time is that, after Wei Wuxian has done all the talisman-ing he can do and stands back, Wen Ning still isn’t himself. That only happens after a big final burst of spiritual energy from Lan Wangji—after Lan Wangji has been pouring spiritual music into Wen Ning for quite some time, too. It’s hard not to wonder: could Wei Wuxian have taken that final step, brought Wen Ning back to himself, if Lan Wangji hadn’t helped? Is his ghostly path, on its own, enough to achieve these miraculous results? Or is it the combination of Wei Wuxian’s heretical cultivation and Lan Wangji’s orthodox cultivation that ultimately solves the puzzle?

Second, I know not everyone is on board with the idea of Wangxian as A-Yuan’s parents, even symbolically, and I respect that. But I think it’s a useful exercise to ask, re: the scene in and outside the Yiling Tea House, Why is A-Yuan there? You can easily imagine the scene unfolding basically the same way without him (Wei Wuxian runs into Lan Wangji; they chat over lunch and Wei Wuxian grieves the loss of his dream of his sister’s wedding). So what purpose does A-Yuan’s presence, specifically, serve?

I think it’s hard to escape the conclusion that A-Yuan’s presence is, in fact, intended to set up the idea of Wangxian as A-Yuan’s potential parents—from the onlookers calling Lan Wangji A-Yuan’s dad, to Wei Wuxian’s joke that A-Yuan is his son, to the visual tableau of the two adults eating lunch with A-Yuan sitting on Lan Wangji’s lap. Maybe it’s just my personal blind spot, but I’m having a hard time thinking of any other reason for those beats to exist. This is perhaps extra important to the drama writers because of censorship: giving two characters a shared kid is the perfect plausible-deniability signifier of couple-dom, since there’s nothing expressly romantic about it… but viewers are culturally accustomed to co-parents being romantic partners. That gives the writers a reason to really lean into the “Wangxian Dads” thing, above and beyond what might be in the novel. Whether that’s fair to Wen-popo and the other Wen Remnants is a worthwhile question—but I don’t think it's plausible to say that fans who also lean into the “Wangxian Dads” thing are imposing something on the characters that the writers didn’t intend.

Third and finally, it’s striking how comfortable Wen Qing is bantering with Wei Wuxian in front of Lan Wangji; she basically treats Wei Wuxian the same exact way she always does, even though she’s normally quite reserved in front of outsiders. (It also makes a very striking contrast with the way she treated Jiang Cheng when he visited the Burial Mounds in the previous episode.) It kind of breaks my heart – I watch that scene and can’t help thinking, “This is how it could be, this is what they could have had.” Which I think is the point of a lot of this episode.