#[RATTLES MY PRISON CAGE]

[grimalkinmessor]

Not to keep harping on it but Death Note has plenty of fridge horror to go along with the unintentional humor and romance.

Like,,,the ENTIRETY of Wammy's House is such a fucked up concept. An orphanage where they crank out genius kids into the world by...what? What are they doing with those kids? What do you mean one of them died in there? Wait—and the second one is a serial killer? And one joined the mafia? What—WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THOSE KIDS—

Not to mention the intricacies of L and Watari's relationship. He's seen as a butler/father figure until you find out that he's an inventor/war vet who took in an orphan with the express purpose of making him useful. No wonder Wammy's runs the way it does when the og, the man it is named after sees children as tools and means to an end. And, given that L has already made them so much money playing stocks that it doesn't even matter anymore (Mr. Builds A Skyscraper To House Five People), why is Quillish still with him? To keep an eye on him? To make sure L doesn't forget where he came from? Out of some sort of guilt for never teaching him how to take care of himself because those weren't the skills that Quillish thought it important to cultivate? Or maybe even to keep him dependent on Quillish to keep functioning properly.

And then there's the horror of L himself. Not even the implications of him, but the proof of who he is and what he can do. The thought of a man with so much money and power and influence that if he wanted to make you disappear, if he wanted to torture you or hold your loved ones hostage or kill you and everyone that's ever shaken your hand he could and no one would fucking bat an eye—that's fucking terrifying. (Where the fuck is Beyond—) And, not only does he have the power to do all that; no one would question it because he's part of Law™. His every action can be excused as being part of the Greater Good, despite the fact that L himself has admitted that everything he does is for his own benefit and/or entertainment.

Light, of course, is an obvious horror—but one of the most horrific things about him is glossed over. I'm not someone who personally believes in the Death Note's corruptive powers or aura or whatever, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the fact that, once you give up the Death Note, your memories of it are erased. All the people you've killed, all the things that you've seen, you've still seen and done all those things, you just don't remember it. There's a hole in your mind, and all that prickly, thorny mess that grew in you when you were a killer is still there, choking you—you just don't know why. Why are you so unfazed by death? Why don't you cry when your mother dies? Why are you so afraid of being something that looks like you? Will you ever be certain of anything again? Will you ever, truly, know yourself when you can't remember all the atrocities you've committed? Can you ever change and grow again if your roots are gone? Or are you stuck in stasis forever now, your mind stalling in one place in order to keep you from remembering the people you've killed?

[coulson-is-an-avenger]

god. being a fan of a character that is physically a Presence and not a Being when you're an artist is so embarassing like i'll be sitting there absolutely entrenched in feelings abt a machine that gained sentience and is unfathomably large but also trapped within itself and also i have to be like 😍😍😍😍😍omg blorbo😍😍😍😍😍 and blorbo is this shit:

[ID: A picture of a Borg cube from Star Trek and a picture of a gray, sprawling labyrinth. End ID.]

[agendersebastian]

PLEASE ASK ME FOR A RANDOM ASS HEADCANON I WILL PULL PUT MY FUCKING ASS FOR A RANDOM CHARACTER.

SOME FANDOMS I WILL ANSWER. :

KIRBY.

THE PINK CORRUPTION.

JUST SHAPES AND BEATS.

UNDERTALE.

DELTARUNE.

ALSO I WILL SWEAR A FUCK TON BECAUSE IM CURRENTLY PISSED THE FUCK OFF.!!!

[kinlochs]

Cassian knew that he was pushing the envelope a little bit with Morrigan. Truthfully, he did not know the reasoning for his prodding. Did he need one? Was it so bad to ask about her life? Morrigan had been raised in such a different place from anyone he had ever known. It shone through every aspect of her being. Cassian could not ignore that. It is why he only offers a secretive smile to her jabs, but nothing more. He did not have an answer. Not really.

"I suppose I can parse the reasoning for Flemeth's reaction," the Warden reasons, choosing his words carefully. "If it came down to survival. Being undetected, I mean. There was a lesson to be learnt, but this is something that all children have to experience at one time or another," Cassian muses. He could think of a similar instance in his own childhood confined within the Tower. Sneaking into the basement of Kinloch was forbidden, as it housed many rare and potentially dangerous artifacts. Was it such a surprise when Cassian's investigation of a peculiar phylactery resulted in harsh punishment? It had summoned a Revenant, after all. It was why it was hidden.

Irving did not take him for lessons for weeks afterwards. The Templars locked Cassian within a holding chamber. Meditate upon your actions, mage, they had said. It was abundantly clear then that he was an Other in their eyes. Not he, or they, but an it. Nothing more than an object to be contained like the phylactery.

The first day in which Irving allowed Cassian to be taught once more consisted of nothing but rote memorization. Walls upon walls of chalk handwriting--the same thing, over and over again, until he couldn't manage to hold the chalk in his grip, let alone a staff or a potion.

Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him ...

It had been for his own good. He hadn't dared to do it since. Irving only wished the best for him. It was why he had flown through his Harrowing--why he was able to leave with Duncan instead of being made Tranquil.

"You would know better than most, wouldn't you?" Cassian replies. How oddly they parallel one another. It jerks him to reality somewhat. Here he gazes upon Morrigan as if through a spyglass like a peculiar thing to be studied. Witch of the Wilds, the Chasind had called her with disgust, but Cassian now parted a veil to see far beyond that. Best not to alert her of that. He did not think she would take kindly to it.

"I do not care for what she says," Cassian says flippantly. "You're right in that she tells many heroic tales. I sometimes think that this may be too much for her. She is old." And dead, Cassian reminds himself. "I ... I don't wish to martyr myself if I can avoid it," the Warden chuckles dryly. "I don't have a very good gut feeling about myself and Alistair as the last of Fereldan's Order, however. Only time will tell," he says truthfully. The thought has dawned upon him before. How likely was it that either one of them would escape alive? Certainly not both. And Alistair needed to be King.

It was too soon to think about those things. Cassian needed to remain focused upon the tasks at hand.

"It remains to be seen if I will experience anything beyond this blight," Cassian teases despite himself. "Perhaps I will celebrate in the streets of Denerim and drain every tankard in the city when the time comes, hm?"

❝ Am I the subject of your studies in the absence of books, warden? Should I be flattered you wish to know so much? ❞ A raised eyebrow and a questioning look; but no real sharpness, and the answer to his question soon follows, despite the jab at his curiosity. ❝ Taverns would come later. I did not linger long, that first time. ❞

❝ 'Twas all most strange to me, ❞  An easy admission as much as an expected one. How odd a village seemed, to a little girl to whom the whole world had, up until then, comprised solely the Korcari Wilds. There had been tales, of course; Flemeth had told her of the world beyond. There had been glimpses of other people; 'twas much easier to venture close to the Chasind tribes than a proper village, in her first few years of life. They didn't curse her as a witch as readily then. ❝ But far from looking down on what I found, I was dazzled. I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in garments the likes of which I had never before seen. So awed was I that she, to me, seemed what true beauty must be. ❞

A feeling memory can yet conjure. There is no forgetting the awe that dominated her at the sight; not different, she imagines now, to every little girl amazed by princessly figures. ❝ I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. 'Twas wrought in gold and gemstones, and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds. ❞

❝ Flemeth was furious, ❞ The natural statement to follow. There may be a mother who would, instead, have been most concerned due to her absence; but that would never be her mother. ❝ I was a child, and thus, had not yet come into my full power — and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble. ❞ Delight had turned to terror, heartbreak replacing awe; this, too, a feeling most simple to recall. She had not forgotten that essential lecture. ❝ To teach me a lesson, she grabbed the mirror and shattered it. I was heartbroken. ❞

❝ Surely you can predict that I, of all our traveling group, shall not speak against your decision to withhold from looking for your family. ❞ And yet she does not resent her lesson; it had made her stronger, unpleasant though it may have been. She did not have to like Flemeth to admit that, nonetheless; love had never been the constant between them, nor did she wish for it to be. ❝ Though scarcely out of agreement with Wynne. ❞ 

❝ There are more pressing matters to be dealt with for us all. Yet is it not our goal to ensure there will be time for the more trivial matters after this is dealt with? ❞ Arms crossed, there is an almost gentleness in her prodding this time; a temperate stoking of the flames, instead of a harsh pinch of salt upon a wound. ❝ I would imagine this extends to the Grey Wardens. ❞

❝ Lest you wish to play the selfless hero and annul yourself for the sake of others forevermore, which is your prerogative, of course, ❞ A cheap and pointless thing, she thinks, but an option regardless. The heroism Wynne presents as sentence is but the one path to follow; and the less desirable, at that. ❝ 'Tis only true if you allow it to be. Grey Warden or not, we are all entitled to our wants, as much as they may linger beyond our reach. Saving Thedas is a desirable outcome for all, and thus we each take part in it — what you do beyond that is for you to decide. ❞

❝ The old hag adores her tales of heroism and honor, yet all I see are demands being made that others will pay the price for, ❞ A hummed observation, all malice despite the light cadence of her words. At the risk of dancing too close to the edge of future plans, Morrigan adds: ❝ You need not pay a price merely because it is demanded of you. There are oft other paths, should you only be willing to walk them — displeasing as they may seem to others. ❞

[velvette-creations]

Fettered

House of the Dragon: Gwayne Hightower x Targ!reader (mentions of eye color and hair color)

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2.1 k 

Prompt: “You make me wanna do something outside of my nature” -Making a Move by TWRP for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: DUB-CON, captivity, spanking, cock warming, manipulation, misogyny, anal, humiliation, bondage, forced nudity

Summary: At the Battle of Honeywine, Gwayne takes you as a prisoner of war

It is war’s prize to take all vantage ~ William Shakespeare

Your hand gripped the hilt of your sword as you swung your blade. The battle waged around you, the smell of blood heavy in the air. Victory tasted sweet on your tongue as Rhaenyra’s supporters began to diminish Ormund Hightower’s army. Your foe proved worthy, blocking your blow with his sword and shoving you back. With feet planted firmly in the ground, he failed to break you down. The two of you continued your dance. You were unaware that you were fighting against the Dowager Queen’s brother, and he was unaware that he squared off with Queen Rhaenyra’s own sister.

Dread bubbled under your skin when you heard the dragon’s roar then saw the great blue beast fill the sky. Daeron the Daring. The distraction was enough to gain Gwayne Hightower the upper hand, swiftly knocking you to your feet and pressing the sharp tip of his blade against the delicate sliver of your exposed throat. The putrid stench of burned flesh filled the air, and Rhaenyra’s men fell as dragon fire claimed them. Gwayne removed his helmet and smirked down at you as the recognition of his identity seeped through your veins. 

“Do you wish to bend the knee to the rightful King Aegon, or do you wish to have your head removed from your body?” he asked, his brown eyes filled with darkness.

“I will never bend the knee to the usurper,” you spat.

“Many say that in the beginning, but the fear of death changes their mind,” Gwayne tutted, gently shaking his head and flicking an errant lock of auburn hair out of his eyes.

“A dragon doesn’t fear death,” you said, reading to meet the Stranger.

“A dragon?” Gwayne questioned, his lips twisting into a frown, reaching down to pull your helmet off your head.

Your silver hair had been braided tightly and wound around your head, but there was no mistaking you for anything other than a Targaryen. Your violet eyes narrowed as you flexed your knee, aiming your foot toward his ankle to catch him off guard. An amused chuckle fell from his lips as your force merely rattled his armor.

“My, a princess playing a warrior,” he mused, pressing his boot firmly against your chest.

“I can assure you…traitor, that I do not play at anything,” you hissed.

“We shall see,” he hummed, calling over some men from his cousin’s army to bind you and place you across the back of his horse. Humiliation burned your cheeks, but at least you were alive. An alive person stood a chance, while the dead poised none. You would not give Gwayne Hightower the satisfaction of your tears, so you remained silent during the most uncomfortable ride toward Oldtown.

Unbeknownst to you, a certain thrill surged through the Hightower man, awakening urges he thought long buried deep down. You were his now, and new desires bloomed through him. A darker nature seeped in, chasing away the chivalrous knight who obeyed the rules. Times of war called for a sterner nature.

You expected to be placed in the underground vault of Hightower when you finally arrived at the gloomy place. The flame shone bright and emerald on top of the beacon. The bannerman called to war to fight for their king. Bitterness filled your mouth as you were roughly pulled off Gwayne’s horse and dragged inside.

“Secure her in my chambers and arrange for a bath,” Gwayen instructed.

You raised a pale brow but said nothing.

“After all, a princess must be kept in a gilded cage,” Gwayne called after you, a smirk curling across his lips.

You were freed from the ropes biting into your skin, and the men stripped you of your armor, leaving you in a thin tunic and breeches as handmaids came in one after another with buckets of warm water to fill the stone tub placed in the room. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire crackled in the hearth, and you hated yourself for feeling thankful for the warmth.

“Thank you, ladies, you are dismissed,” Gwayne announced as he entered the room.

Steam rose from the bath, the sweet scent of lavender tickling beneath your nose.

“Come and remove my armor,” Gwayne ordered.

“I am not your servant,” you seethed.

“No, you are my prisoner,” he corrected with a haughty look.

A scowl remained permanently etched across your face as you willed your bare feet to move. You unhooked his green cape before removing the rest of his armor. You gasped when he grabbed you, tugging you free of your remaining clothing until you stood bare before him. He said naught as he freed your silver hair from the tightly woven braids and guided you toward the steaming bath.

“In you go,” he cooed in a tone as if one were placating a child and patted your bare rump.

Your fingers curled into fists as you spun around on your heels, hand poised to slap him across the face. He grabbed hold of your wrists, keeping you in place as he chuckled.

“My, you dragons certainly do have fire,” he mused, his dark eyes boring into yours, “You might think to mind your manners, or I could arrange for you to be thrown into one of the empty vaults without a stitch of clothing to keep you warm.”

You growled. His threat should have subdued you, but instead, it only fueled the hot flames licking deep in your belly. If only you could wrap your fingers around a blade. You could slit his throat and be done with it.

“Mayhaps I ought to teach you a lesson in how a delicate princess ought to behave,” he hummed.

You fought him every step of the way as he dragged you over to the bed and across one knee. Your feet dangled, the tips of your toes brushing against the floor before his palm cracked down hard against your bare skin, making you roar.

“Unhand me!” you demanded.

“You are in no position to be making such demands,” Gwayne pointed out as his hand slapped down repeatedly against your vulnerable rump.

You gritted your teeth as his palm painted your skin crimson red. The burn itched, and you hated that your resolve was breaking. One could only take so much.

“Please,” you wailed, hoping for mercy.

None came as he swatted your upper thighs, setting your tender skin aflame. He did not stop until he was satisfied with the chastisement, and your skin bloomed fiery red with his handprints.

“I shall repeat this lesson as many times as needed,” he warned before allowing you to slip down your feet.

Tears blurred your vision as pain throbbed through you. He waited for no more argument before scooping you into his arms and placing you in the bath. You whined as the water further irritated your abused skin. The smirk never left Gwayne’s face as he began to scrub you clean. You were surprised as he washed your hair, his hands pleasantly kneading your scalp and ensuring all the grime was stripped away.

“Now you appear to be a proper princess,” he smiled. He helped you out of the bath, dried you off with a linen towel, and wrapped you in a green robe embroidered with golden threading. His hand took hold of your chin, tilting your gaze towards his. “You are mine, princess. This room will be heavily guarded at all times, and there will be consequences if you dare to attempt an escape.”

His words made heat bloom in your nether regions. You had not expected that the man your Uncle bested at the tourney all those years ago possessed such a nature. You had expected him to behave as a pompous imbecile. How mistaken you were.

~~

The days passed in your opulent prison. Despite the comfortable bed, the sumptuous food, and warm baths, the obvious deceptions and distractions, you were well aware of your position. A Targaryen Princess trapped in the Hightower flame. You passed the time by playing the game, allowing Gwayne to believe he held the upper hand and you were the pathetic prisoner at his mercy. You allowed your body to bear the burden while your mind remained sharp as the blade you wished to drive into his neck. 

Gwayne’s belt bound your wrists, and you squealed as his hand cracked down repeatedly. You were naked, squirming over his lap as he thoroughly punished you for attempting to escape. You did your best to hide the smug smile at slicing one of the guard’s faces. Your marks would heal, while his would serve as a reminder of what happens when one tussled with a dragon.

“And to think I had come to reward you with a pretty gown only to discover what a naughty girl you’ve been,” he scolded as he slapped your rump. You cursed yourself for finding this tête-à-tête so arousing, but you had grown to enjoy his rough treatment, followed by the tenderness. Or so you convinced yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, but you weren’t sorry in the least. You had learned to accept your fate in order to survive.

“Hush now. I shall make you well-behaved yet, even if it kills me,” he lectured, smoothing his palm over your heated skin. The irony of his words was not lost on you. One day, it will. He pressed his thumb between his lips, sucking on the appendage until it grew slick with his salvia. He spread your cheeks, placing his wet thumb against your hole, and massaged the muscle. “Perhaps further humiliation is in order.”

The tip of his thumb slipped inside, and you mewled. Allow him to hear it, let him believe he is breaking me.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckled darkly as he claimed your most intimate area.

~~

His cock warmed your mouth as he sat at the desk, slowly working on his correspondence.

“Your sister is eager for your safe return,” he chuckled, patting your head. “Should I write to tell her that you enjoy being my pup? Eager to serve her master.” A dragon serves no one, especially not a Hightower.

Shame palpated in your belly. You hated how right he was, how you craved the carrot over the stick. How he would fill your arse with the perfectly fitted stone before he bent you over and fucked you, rutting you like one would a bitch in heat. You loved when he spanked you or bent your knees back to your ears as he slapped your cunt furiously. Sometimes, he would make you kneel at his feet while he fed you morsels of food. Most of the time, you were kept naked, but there were times he would gift you a beautiful emerald gown and allow you to dine with him like a lady. You craved all he gave.

Or you convinced yourself of such. One must do many distasteful things to survive.

You merely hummed around his cock in response, and as the ink dried on the parchment, he fucked your mouth and spilled down your throat. He didn’t notice as the letter opener clattered to the floor, a detail that did not escape you.

That evening, you crawled onto his chest, kissing his mouth and cheeks sweetly.

“Allow me to please you, my lord,” you purred, voice dripping with honey.

“Go on then,” he grinned, hands stroking your hips.

You pulled the blanket away, inching the sleep clothes up his waist and nuzzling his cock to stir him to life. It did not take long to make him stiff for you, and you slipped onto him with ease. His large hands cupped your bare breasts as you rode him. You moaned wantonly, tossing your head back as you waited for the precise moment. Just as he entered the throes of passion, his eyes closed as his back arched. One hand slipped around his throat while your other slipped under your pillow and wrapped around the letter opener.

He sputtered as your grip tightened around his throat, and his eyes flew open just in time to see you drive the item deep into his neck. You willed your strength to make sure it buried deep in his flesh.

“I do hope I’ve become the lady you taught me to be,” you cooed, placing a kiss on his cold lips as the light drained from his eyes. Syrax’s roar filled the air, followed by the screams of men as your sister, the rightful queen, came to your rescue. You could not wait to scrub your skin clean of this place and of his touch.

A dragon cannot be tamed by one who is not worthy.

[notsoterriblymisanthropic]

The night I was first arrested, I was put into this horrible cell in Baltimore City Jail, and it was hot as hell. It was May, the cell I was in was over the laundry, and I couldn't sleep. I lay there, and I thought two things. One, you better fucking believe in your politics, girl, because now you're going to do life in prison for them. So, you better figure out right now how you want to do this. That one was kind of easy. And then the other thing was - you know how people say they can take everything but my dignity? - well, I thought to myself, if they take my sense of humor, they've won. Because that's what keeps me going. Just being able to look at life and see the absurd and find some kind of joy in that.

Former anti-imperialist prisoner Laura Whitehorn, from Rattling the Cages

[ghoulgeists]

Repostober day 5 my yeegirls...... filed under list of characters I need to draw again or I will go crazy(!!!!!)

cornered

[tiredfox64]

NEED MAVADO AND MALE/GN READER PLEEK

maybe reader is like shang tsung’s prisoner and mavado accidentally found reader after ambushing shang tsung (kinda inspired by the smol reader fic 😭)

Caged Bird

Yip notes: Please...pleek...pleek

Pairing: Mavado x Gn reader

Warning‼️: The only red flag I see is that man but if I take my glasses off I don't see anything

Making a deal with a sad Satan would be easier than making a deal with Shang Tsung. That never stopped Mavado’s drive to capture Kano. The Red Dragons need to get their hands on that filth of a man. They want all Black Dragons to be exterminated.

Mavado kept up his end of the deal. He fought tooth and nail to capture Kenshi and bring him to the sorcerer. In return, he received Kano. He took care of him by torturing him endlessly. It was a treat after all the shit he had to go through. But there is still one mess he needs to clean up. That mess would be Shang Tsung.

He’s no fool. Mavado knew of Shang Tsung’s deceptions and trickery. As if he would walk into a deal without thinking ahead. As soon as he was done with Kano he sent Hsu Hao to take care of his unfinished business. Shame on him for trusting Hsu Hao, he never got a response back. Never trust a jobber to do your job. Mavado had to close this alliance now before things went to hell. Unbeknownst to him, this last interaction with the sorcerer will give him something else.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

Cowards! That’s all Shang Tsung and Quan Chi were. They’re cowards who can’t handle Mavado and his hookswords. One man was outdoing them. He had amazing control over the swords and he used his grappling hooks to avoid their attacks. They need to stop underestimating their opponents if they ever want to succeed.

Shang Tsung nearly met his end when Mavado swung his hookswords near his throat. This was too risky even for a 2 v 1. Quan Chi helped Shang Tsung by casting a spell. Mavado was hit in the face with this cloud made of green smoke and skulls. He blocked his face and slashed at the cloud. Only when it cleared did Mavado realize that they were running away. He can’t let them leave.

He ran after them, bolting down corridors as he kept his eyes on the sorcerers. Twists and turns slowed him down until he was completely lost. The halls echoed the sounds of their footsteps too much. It was difficult to figure out where they were running to. As much as he hated to admit it, he was lost. He kept his cool but he couldn’t help but huff in frustration. Giving up is not an option. He should at least try to find them and end this unwanted escapade.

He wandered around the place to track down his targets. He only managed to stumble into what could only be described as horrific. Abominations made from god’s creations and altered without his permission. Chains swayed in the ceiling, rattling every time a disfigured body tried to free itself. Tanks full of mysterious liquid held the remains of people. The cages held many horrors. Mavado recognized that the creatures inside of them were tarkatans except they were mutated. Their skins were more reddish and had more spikes coming out of their bodies. The foulest ones were bulky like they were pumped full of steroids. He’ll pass on that. The last cage must hold the worst of them all. A being with no light left in their eyes, one who would relinquish any speck of humanity from themselves, one who would—oh, wait, it’s not bad at all.

In the last cage, your body laid on a filthy mattress. The metal frame of the bed looked as rusted as the metal chains that kept you in place. You had your back turned to the bars so you never saw Mavado staring at you.

He was staring for a minute or two. Out of everything he had seen in that room, you were a sight for sore eyes, at least from what he could see. He could only see your back but there didn’t seem to be any spikes coming out of you or discoloration in your skin. He wondered why someone so normal was in this cursed place. Curiosity drives people and it drove Mavado to knock lightly against the bars. They rang out and alerted you that someone was there.

“I thought you said no experiments for today since you had a supposed guest.” You replied in a tired and blunt tone.

You mistook Mavado for Shang Tsung. It did surprise him that you were being experimented on. You don’t have any signs on your body to show you were altered. Not even a blood stain on you.

“You are mistaken.” He put it simply.

You flinched when you heard a mysterious voice. You turned around slowly, suspicious of who was behind you. You worried that this was another one of Shang Tsung’s tricks and he was disguising himself as someone else. The man you turned to was unfamiliar. You took in every detail you could such as his clothes, the tattoo on his arm, his hookswords, and his face. As you did that, he did the same to you.

Mavado examined the way you looked at him. You showed no fear in your eyes not even when you looked at his swords. You looked confused but curious at the same time. Now that he had a better look at you he can confirm you were not mutated or altered. You looked as regular as him. Though he did find you to be quite stunning. He might be thinking that because out of everything he has seen you are the one who doesn’t hurt his eyes.

“By any chance, did your jailer come running by here?” He asked.

You nodded your head no before speaking, “I never heard his footsteps. You were pretty quiet coming in here.”

“That’s because I wanted to take my time…” He looked around the place to emphasize his next point, “Observing Shang Tsung’s creations.”

“Mhm, yes, quite the scientist. Sooner or later I’ll look like one of these freaks.” Your nonchalant attitude soon became somber. You were clearly unhappy with your predicament.

Look, Mavado isn’t a saint. He’s part of a criminal organization but you don’t know that. But if he were in your shoes he wouldn’t want to be turned into a tarkatan. Their lives are full of pain. It’d be a shame if a gorgeous person like you were to be turned into something so wretched. It’d really piss off Shang Tsung if one of his experiments were set free or even stolen. You know what, Mavado has a good set of reasons to let you out. It’s not like you’re gonna argue with him about setting you free.

“Well, you could always leave.”

“Do you not see the chains and bars? I can’t leave.” You looked at him like he was crazy.

“Not without my help.”

You tilted your head in confusion. You were unsure of what he was hinting at. It’s not like he had a key with him.

“I’ll make a deal with you. I help you get out of here, and you come with me. The Red Dragon clan could always use another set of hands.”

He made you curious. You never heard of the Red Dragon clan. You have a bunch of questions as to how this clan is associated with Shang Tsung. You don’t even know the man in front of you. Will that stop you from getting your possible freedom? You have nothing else to lose it’s either this or growing teeth that resemble a piranha.

“Humor me. I’d like to see you try when you don’t have the key with you.”

Watch and learn.

Mavado took his time observing the bars of your cage. They were rusted and they shifted from a light push. They aren’t up to date. A few kicks should do the job but that would be too loud and alert the sorcerers. He better give it one hell of a kick to break it.

He stored his hookswords behind his back before pulling out his grappling hooks. He threw them down, the hook sinking into the hard ground. He gave a test yank to make sure they would stay put. Yup, they ain’t moving. He turned to look at you and he gave a face that made you feel some hope. Mavado had a smug look that said “Are you ready for this, I don’t think you are ready for this”.

“Cover your ears. This is going to be loud.” He warned.

He took steps back and stretched his grappling hooks. The band grew thinner the farther he went back. You stared blankly at the spectacle before you. You covered your ears as he instructed and waited for the solution to come flinging.

Mavado couldn’t back up any further and found that this would be enough. He jumped up and he was flung at the bars at high speeds. They never stood a chance. A loud clashing of metal echoed as the bars fell to the ground hard. It cracked the stones beneath it. There, Mavado stood before you, dusting himself off like what he did was casual. Your mouth fell open.

He retracted his grappling hooks and took out his hookswords to help with your chains. He slashed both of them at the same time. It was so quick and effortless that you didn’t realize he did it until your arms fell to your sides. You looked at your wrist to see the shackles still on you with a small length of chain still attached.

You felt like you could breathe for the first time in a while. That bland attitude you had changed. You were lively instead of acting like a corpse ready for examination. You took a step off of your rancid bed but almost fell. Mavado was quick to catch you and help you stand. He had you move your arm so it could wrap around his neck. His arm wrapped around your waist to keep you balanced.

“Don’t push yourself. Shang Tsung had probably weakened you too much to walk.” He advised you as you two slowly walked out of your cage.

You didn’t care that you were weak. You were just happy to be out and moving. Though it may be cut short with Mavado bringing you to his clan, you will at least bask in this moment.

All that ruckus would of course alert Shang Tsung. He ignored Quan Chi’s advice to not investigate and ran to find that one of his experiments was missing. Mavado was pushing all of his buttons.

As Mavado tried to find an exit he heard rapid footsteps coming from behind. When he peaked over his shoulders, he saw Shang Tsung coming for you both. He was so angry he used his magic to shoot flaming skulls at you two. You would have been hit if Mavado didn’t pull you away in time. Oh NOW he wants to fight.

“Wrap your arms around my neck tightly.” He instructed in a serious tone.

“Why?”

“Because it’s going to be rough for you.”

You had no idea what he meant but you did as he said. You stared at Shang Tsung in horror as he came closer. You didn’t watch Mavado as he used his grappling hooks once more. You heard a snap and after that the only noise left was you screaming as you both were flung into the air.

Good riddance, Shang Tsung.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

“Mavado, why do you always bring random people back to the stronghold?” Daegon asked as he rubbed his forehead in frustration.

“I don’t see any downsides to adding more warriors to our clans.”

“They are not a warrior, they are an experiment.” Daegon corrected Mavado.

“They were an experiment before I recused them. They could easily become a warrior if you let them stay.” Mavado had that same smug look on his face because he knew Daegon wouldn’t deny having more people in his clan.

The demigod sighed before saying, “Fine, but they are your responsibility. If Shang Tsung comes looking for them you take care of that yourself.” Daegon walked off after giving Mavado the go-ahead to let you join.

Hsu Hao just finished getting your shackles off when Mavado came back. He told Hsu Hao to get more supplies to clean you up. He then took your wrist to check for any wounds since the skin seemed damaged.

“So, your name is Mavado?” You asked.

“Yes. I forgot to introduce myself officially. But now you know.” He sat down next to you and began to clean your wrist with an alcohol wipe.

“What should I expect to happen now?”

“For one, you won’t be put into a cage. I don’t think someone like you should be trapped away and left to rot. Second, you’re with us now. And if you don’t want that then too bad, you know too much now.” His tone was joking but he was full-on serious.

You cracked a small smile and rolled your eyes, “Don’t worry, I don’t think I can leave with how weak I am. Plus, I need to repay you back for getting me out.”

“You’re starting to get it now. Soon you will be in good shape and I will make you into a warrior. Maybe then you and I can exact our revenge on Shang Tsung.”

“I’d like that actually.”

Maybe your time with the Red Dragons won’t be so bad. You already have a liking to Mavado, it can’t be hard to like everyone else. Plus, he is quite the looker. Better looking than those tarkatans you were surrounded by that’s for sure.

Yap notes: I will forever see him as Guatemalan and Dominican. Y'all can say he is Puerto Rican or Spanish (From Spain I mean) but imma stay in my silly little word and believe he is like me fr fr. Now If you don't mind imma bite the back of his neck and drag him away like a mother cat would. Adiós!

[musings-of-a-rose]

I Don't Want to See Tomorrow (Unless I See It With You) - Chapter 6

Pairing: Benny Miller x wife!reader nicknamed “Juni”

Word Count: 3500+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: This is it, folks! I had some little short story ideas for this fic. Maybe I’ll write them one day if people want. HUGE shoutout to @laurfilijames for listening to me babble about this fic. I hope you enjoy your husband Will! And also to @mermaidxatxheart for listening to my crazy messages about a world she’s not terribly familiar with. I hope you enjoy your guest spot!  This is not beta’d - we yeet and post.

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

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**Reader is not described

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I Don’t Want to See Tomorrow (Unless I See It With You) series masterlist

My eyes blink, trying to focus as I will them to open, my head spinning and aching at the back from whatever hit me. I bring my hand to the back of my head and feel a knot, but no blood. Or at least it’s dried. I hope that’s a good thing. 

The floor beneath me is hard and dirty, which isn’t out of the norm, but a memory stirs at the back of my mind, pulling at the edges of memory.

“And they said Raiders can’t be sneaky!”

My eyes finally focus and I try to sit up, my head lightly scraping against a hard surface. I feel above me a hard roof, my fingers scrambling to try and find an edge. But then my eyes land on the bars in front of me and I realize - I’m in a cage. On all fours, I move around and finally find the door, which of course is firmly locked. I grip the bars, squeezing them tight before I shake the door gently. It doesn’t budge. 

Part of me wants to scream and yell, but I’ve seen enough of those old movies to know that it won’t do me any good. No one will let me out or I wouldn’t be in here to begin with. I take a look around the dingy, poorly-lit room and see no one. Just half broken furniture and some rusty shelves with various parts of metal, some canned foods, and…is that a board game? It’s not until I see the needle full of Jet (a drug) on the table that I know who took me for certain. My memory was not failing me. 

Raiders.

I have no idea why they would take me, but I do know that I’m fucked. It does give me a little hope that they haven’t done anything yet. Maybe they’re waiting for me to wake up….

I quickly lay back down, curling into the same position I had woken from. I keep my eyes open, studying my prison for as long as I can. But when I hear the footsteps growing closer, I close them gently, hoping that I can still look like I’m asleep. Heavy footsteps shuffle in, 2 sets as far as I can hear. I don’t dare open my eyes.

“Still out?” a deep voice asks.

“Seems so.” The bars of my cage rattle as the second man shakes the cage. I don’t move. “Yeah. I’d say she is.”

The first man groans. “I wish she’d wake up. Maybe the boss would let us torture her a bit while we’re waiting on Nightshade.”

Benny. Of course. That’s why they took me. Benny missed several drop offs and he’d assumed they would think he was dead. Apparently, he thought wrong.

“Yeah but the boss said no touching. That we’re waitin’ on what’s owed us. And Nightshade won’t be nice if we hurt what’s his.”

Some more grumbling from the first man before something clanks on the floor next to the bars of my cage and they shuffle out. I wait a few minutes before moving, making sure no one else was coming. When nothing happens, I crack an eye open and scan the area. A can of Pork N’ Beans sits next to the cage, slightly open with what I’m assuming is a fork sticking out of it. Next to it is a bottle of questionable at best water. My throat is terribly dry and my stomach betrays me with a low grumble at the sight of the can. I doubt they’re going to poison me, as they could’ve killed me at any time. That’s the Raider way. Same goes for drugging. They could’ve put a line in my or anything while I was out but they didn’t. They need me alive. 

I take a very small sip of water and nibble from the can, making sure to place them back where they had been left, just in case they return quickly. They would think I was still out. But no one comes back and as the time goes on to what may be night, I start to wonder if they’ll come back. Maybe I’ll be left to die in this crate. I decide to chance another couple nibbles and sips, gently placing the containers back. 

A few hours later, I hear another set of footsteps coming closer. I get back in my fake sleeping position, listening to whomever was shuffling in. Definitely different than the first 2 people. These steps are more confident, like they know what they’re doing. I hear them stop by the cage door, standing there for several moments before heading over to the couch and slumping down on it.  

“I know you’re awake.”

Fuck. Well, no use pretending. I open my eyes and sit up as best as I can, staring at the man on the couch. He’s definitely a Raider, the patchy clothes and scars littering his shirtless body are a big indicator. As is the shoulder plate armor with giant spikes coming from it. He’s got a scar across his cheek and a tattoo of some kind of marking around his eyes. He scratches at the short mohawk on his head, plopping down another piece of armor from his body on the makeshift coffee table in front of him. 

“I’m Draven. Who are you to Nightshade?”

Doesn’t even ask my name. Rude.

“Juni.”

“What’s a Juni?”

I scoff. “My name. Since you didn’t ask.”

He cocks his head slightly. “I’m shocked you told me. I thought you’d have told me to fuck off.”

I nod. “Thought about it.”

His eyebrows raise. “And?”

I shrug. “I figured it wouldn’t get me anywhere.”

He laughs. “Logical. I like that. And funny. No wonder Nightshade keeps you close. Well….most times anyway.”

I cross my arms, willing my nerves to calm down. “What do you want with him?” 

“Ain’t you gonna ask me why you’re here?”

I gesture vaguely. “As a sort of bait or something from Nightshade, I assume.”

He nods. “Or something.” He glances down at the can and jar of water. “You can eat and drink. It’s not poisoned. Water might not be the cleanest but it’s what we got. We never got the parts to fix our purifier.”

I study him for a moment, his dark eyes looking more intense surrounded by the markings. I decide he’s telling the truth and reach for the bottle, taking several sips before setting it to the side and taking a few bites of the beans, my eyes never leaving Draven. He watches me finish eating before shifting on the couch to lay down, tossing his arm over his forehead.

“You don’t have to worry about my people hurtin’ you. I forbid it. As long as you’re cooperative.”

Is that supposed to be comforting? “How long am I going to be here?”

“Just waiting on your boss, hon.”

Boss? Keeps me close? It dawns on me that Draven must think I’m Nightshade’s property. He has no clue how deep Benny’s love for me is. He may not even think that Benny will come for me, but decided to take the chance. 

Draven yawns loudly. “I figure I have nothing to lose. On one hand, if he shows, I’ll be able to get what’s ours. On the other, if he doesn’t think you’re worth it, I get a pretty girl to keep all to myself. Either way, I win.”

I feel the color drain from my face, even though I kind of figured that it wouldn’t end well for me if Benny didn’t show. Question is, how soon will he make it here? Will it be in time?

On the 3rd day in my cage, I’m wakened by various yells and whoops, Draven quickly sitting up on the couch. He looks over at me, a sickly sweet smile spreading across his face as the commotion grows louder.

“Bet that’s your boss.”

The door flies open and a Raider walks in, chest heaving from excitement. “It’s him. It’s The Nightshade!”

Before I can think, my cage door is ripped open and the Raider grips my ankle, dragging me across the cage floor. I try to kick out, but he pins me, Draven coming over to calmly tie my hands behind my back. I knew it wouldn’t work, trying to escape, but I had to give it a shot. Draven hauls me up, gripping the binds at my wrists as he leans in to my ear.

“Let’s go say hi.”

He grips the binds tight, the rope digging further into my skin as he pulls me along, pushing his way through a crowd of people all staring at something on the ground. We break through the crowd and I have to choke back a cry. On the ground is Benny, one Raider on either side of him hauling him up, his arms outstretched on either side. His lip is busted and he spits a glob of blood out on the ground, looking up at Draven. 

“Nightshade. You’re alive.”

Benny pulls a little at each Raider but they hold strong. “I am.”

Draven chuckles, deep in his chest. “And here we thought you were dead. After all, you stopped deliverin’ what was agreed upon.”

“You think I’d go back on a deal?”

Draven watches him for a moment. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell your partner here where the load is, then.” Draven yanks me from behind him, pulling me around front and holding me to his body. My eyes find Benny’s and, even though we are not safe by any means, I take comfort from his gaze, a brief flicker of concern before rage sets in, that darkness enveloping his face.

“You let her go and we can talk.”

Draven does that chuckle again. “Now why would I let my insurance go? She’s my guarantee that you’ll do as I say.”

Benny’s jaw clenches. He hates this. I can’t say I’m too fond of it either.

“I’ll bring you what’s owed.”

“That you will,” Draven smiles down at him. “Maybe we’ll start with her. She has such smoothe skin.” He brushes the backside of a crooked finger down my cheek and I jerk my head away from him as his finger continues to trace a path down my neck.

It’s as if I’m watching things happen in slow motion. Benny jerks his arms once, no doubt the enhancements he’s received taking over as both Raiders go flying. He stands, pulling guns from each of the Raiders and aiming at the ones currently charging him. He always hits a mark, but there’s so many of them. They all rush him, the sound of clashing metal and gunfire deafening in the small circle. But then battle cries and screams sound from the opposite side and the Raiders scatter slightly as men clad in umpire gear and a familiar brown pointed hat come charging in. The Minutemen and Diamond City have arrived, the Raiders momentarily surprised by their abrupt appearance. 

This is so much faster than the films. But while they started strong, the Raiders are more willing to take a life and they start to overpower the Minutemen and Diamond City and it sounds like they’re losing. And Fast. Draven pulls me tighter to him and I feel a knife being pressed to my side, his heavy breathing in my ear warm, fanning down my neck. And then he bursts from the crowd, blood spattered across his face and clothes, chest heaving.

Benny! 

He takes a step forward, but then the ground shakes, a deafening roar sounding loud over the sounds of fighting as a giant dinosaur looking thing comes stomping into view. It’s tall, at least 20 feet tall, curved horns adorning it’s face, scaly skin, standing on 2 legs, 2 long arms with sharp claw-like fingers at the end. And it hits me - this must be a Deathclaw.

“Fuck!” Draven yells from behind me, yanking me along with him as everyone starts running, some people trying to shoot the thing and take it down. We lose Benny in our escape, and honestly, I’m too terrified to try and slow him down. We have to get away from that thing!

As the sounds of the deathclaw and fighting start to fade a little, a shot bounces off the ground next to us. Draven clutches me to him and spins, the knife poking my side again and I gasp at the pain. My hands grip the arm he has pinned across my chest, frantically turning me side to side to find the shooter. But he doesn’t have to look long as Benny appears from nowhere, his dark jacket flapping in the breeze. He aims his pistol at Draven. 

“Just give her to me and I’ll get you what’s owed. Then I’m out.”

Draven squeezes me a little tighter. “She must be more important to you than I thought for you to bring the literal cavalry in.”

Benny shrugs, but I know it’s for show. I can see the tension in his body, in the small movements of his face that I’m so attuned to. “Hard to find good help.”

“Mmm. Well, if she’s not so important, maybe I’ll just keep her. Trade you for her.”

Benny sighs. “Don’t make me kill you, Draven. You’re smarter than all those other Raiders.”

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll just keep her and kill you. Best of both worlds.”

If I hadn’t been staring at his face, I would’ve missed the nearly imperceptible glance Benny gave me, his eyes dropping ever so slightly before snapping back to Draven, who had been rambling on about the horrible things he’d do to me. Slowly, I loosen my grip on Draven’s arm, lowering my own to my sides. I try to tell Benny I love him and trust him with my gaze but I don’t know if he saw it. 

“-and then, only when I’m done with her, I’ll toss her to my-”

BANG!

A loud gunshot rings out, my own voice screaming with it. Draven drops to the floor, instantly dead with a bullet in between his eyes. Benny lowers his gun and runs to me, holding me to him.

“Hey, sshh hey it’s me. You’re ok, Juni. I’ve got you.”

My breathing starts to shorten and I start gasping for breath a little. “Benny?”

He pulls back and looks at me, his eyes wide with fear. They start to rake over my body, but I know where it is. I reach my side and pull my fingers back, blood covering them. 

“No! Fuck!” Benny grabs me as I slump, my limbs already going cold. He must have hit an organ.

“I l-love y-you, Ben..Benny,” I say, gasping for breath.

Benny holds me, but before he can reply, that same screech comes bellowing at us. Benny turns his head, staring at the deathclaw as it charges us. He turns back to me and holds me tighter, trying to shield me from whatever violent attack was about to happen.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’m so sorry, Juni. I love you.”

His tears splash on my face, joining my own. It may be because I’m dying, but I hear what sounds like a vertibird (a sort of helicopter) propeller. And machine gun fire, the screaming from the deathclaw indicating it had been hit. Multiple times. Benny tears his face from mine, looking through the dust at the deathclaw, who was falling on his side, sliding across the dirt, dead.

“Hey! Help! Get a stimpak!” Benny screams from somewhere above me, one of his arms leaving me to wave. 

I look up at the sky and I see it then, a large vertibird descending upon us, someone in power armor hopping out. I must be dying because I swear I see Frankie in the pilot’s chair as the stomping from the power armor gets closer. 

“Here! Stimpak now!” Benny yells and the stomps come closer as my eyes start fluttering. The last thing I see before I pass out is Santi’s face appearing from behind the power armor helmet, leaning over me as Benny comes into view, a pinch in my side before I pass out.

Sunlight streams across my face, the warmth and brightness rousing me from sleep. I blink, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light. As my vision acclimates, I look around the room I’m in. It’s plain, medical. Like a military med tent. I feel a weight on my hand and look down to see Benny, asleep on said hand. His face is turned towards me and I take advantage of the quiet to study his face. It’s peaceful in sleep, the white of his scars even seems subdued. And I’m struck again by how handsome he is and just how lucky I am that he loves me back. I reach over and                                    brush back some hair from his face as he stirs beneath my touch. His eyes open and he finds mine already watching him. He sits up, taking my hand in his.

“You’re awake! How do you feel?”

How do I feel? “A little sore but alive. What happened?”

Benny cups my face and leans towards me, kissing my gently before pulling back, giving me a small smile. “I fucking love you.”

“I love you too.”

He sits back and takes my hand again. “Draven stabbed you. There was so much blood. You were…” he swallows hard and I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “You were dying. And then that deathclaw found us. He was charging and I thought..well I thought if you were dying, then I’d go with you. I was going to protect you as best I could. But then Frankie and Santi showed up and mowed that fucker down.”

“So that was Frankie and Santi? For real?”

He nods. “Yeah! I wasn’t sure they even got my message but apparently they did. Santi got to you just in time. He jammed a stimpak in your side, but you had passed out. We weren’t sure the stimpak would work in time.” He takes a deep breath. “But you did. Once it seemed you were stable enough, we loaded you up and they took us back to base. We’re in a Brotherhood med tent right now.”

“And the Raiders? Won’t they retaliate?”

Benny chuckles. “Those knuckleheads? The only one of them that had half a brain cell was Draven and he’s dead. The others? Most of them died during the fight. Maybe a few survived but we won’t see anything from them.” We sit in silence for a moment before his eyes drop from mine. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get to you.”

I cup his face. “What? No, Benny you did what you could. You couldn’t just come running in. We wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

Benny laughs. “That’s exactly what Will and Tom said. They said you’d kill me yourself for coming in without a plan.”

“And they were right.”

“Tom gathered up all the Diamond City guards and Lauren got in touch with your Minutemen. They came as quick as they could. I’ve never seen Preston that mad. Anyway, you saw what happened.”

My mind flashes back to the battle and I shake my head. “When can we leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I smile at him. “Let’s go home.”

1 year later…

“And then I mowed that yao gui (mutated bear) down!” Santi boasts.

Frankie snorts. “Yeah but it took you a week to scrub your shit from the inside of that power armor!”

We all laugh as Santi throws an empty Pork ‘N Beans can at Frankie’s head. “Pendejo. How many yao guis have you stood in front of?” They bicker like brothers back and forth for another few minutes, eventually walking back towards the kitchen to get more food. 

Benny and I had returned to Sanctuary Hills, bringing Santi and Frankie with us. They helped refortify the perimeter and took turns on watch. They left for a run to Diamond City and came back a month later with Will and Lauren, Tom and Molly opting to stay behind in Diamond City. Tom was too connected with his bar and Molly and the kids loved it there. But what surprised us most was that Santi brought back with him a girl, Jamie, who fit right in the moment she came inside the gates. 

Benny comes to stand next to me, draping his arm around my shoulders. He tips my chin to him with his pointer finger and kisses me, deepening it momentarily before pulling back. He smiles and rubs his nose against mine before resting his head on mine. 

As I feel Benny next to me and look out at all of our friends, my heart fills with happiness and gratitude that we all somehow managed to make it, together, past the end of the world. And that we would be able to survive whatever this wasteland throws our way.

General Taglist:

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[unholyhelbig]

I have a request as I see they are open! I enjoyed the last Oversight AU! Could I request a one shot of Kate’s imitation / first meeting with Natasha? And maybe go into the specifics of the Eli situation? I love to see the badass protective side of Natasha!

Title: Dig Your Own Shallow Grave [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff (Technically, this is one part of a bigger story)

Summary: Kate Bishop is known as the ex-heiress that was welcomed into Natasha's fold long before you. You learn pieces about her everyday, but never the full story. Not until today.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): physical violence, handcuffs, thunderstorms, threats, mentions of death, mentions of jail, incarceration, cheating, toxic relationship dynamic, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, horrible grammar

[a/n: This one is different! I don't know anything about the Elijah that's portrayed in the MCU, just the Young Avengers Eli and I can't stand the dude.]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

The large leaden handcuffs seemed like an unnecessary and overzealous precaution to Natasha Romanoff. They rattled as if the young girl was nothing more than a ghost of Christmas past. They were sinched at her waist, both hands balled into fists until her knuckles were a sickly shade of white.

There was red around her eyes, making a charcoal gray hiss into something muddy and sad. There was a flash of confusion and then disgust that fell over her features when she caught a glimpse of herself in the large two-way mirror that stood parallel.

Natasha turned in her seat, made eye contact with the guard. They had a silent understanding. The cameras that were situated at the corners of the room had been shut off- technical difficulties, they would say.

She collapsed into the chair adjacent to Natasha, never taking her eyes away from the only other distraction in the room. The chain connecting her cuffs were bolted to a hook in the table, but her feet were left free. Unless she was an Olympic swimmer, which she wasn’t, that would be no problem.

The guard nodded before he left them in the room and locked the door behind him. The mechanism in the metal door was loud and sighed with age when turned. The light above them swung back and forth within its cage. A circle of yellow enveloped them both.

Her hair was unkempt, nearly feral. They must have kept her separate from the other prisoners but that didn’t ease her tossing and turning under the fluorescent lights. Natasha had been in holding cells, she’d been stripped of her clothes for testing, and her dignity for much less. Something inside of her broke for this girl. This heiress.

“Who are you?”

It was clear that her voice had gone unused for at least a day, maybe more. She shivered and shrunk into herself at the sound of it. Natasha’s features softened ,that break in her soul cracking just a little further. Her file said she was twenty-two, but the girl in front of her was nothing more than a scared child.

“The woman who is getting you out of here.”

“Please don’t talk in riddles,” She moved to press her fingers against her temples. Her hands were pulled back viciously by her binds. “That’s all my mother does. Did. She talks in circles until I’m too confused to find the start.”

“I suppose that’s fair. You’re Eleanors daughter. Katherine?”

“Kate, but yeah. I’m her daughter.”

It was said with so much bitterness. They weren’t being held at the same facility. Kate was in a deep blue shirt made out of something that was less like fabric and more like paper. She wore the pants to match, her clothes being tested for gunpowder residue.

Eleanor was in a large brick jail in an orange jumpsuit. Natasha had considered going to her but found much more interest in her daughter; the one brave enough to stand up against Wilson Fisk and his incredible size. Bishop took King and destroyed a good amount of property in her district in the process. She’d have to pay thousands to get the folded storefront fixed.

“My name is Natasha Romanoff.”

The sentence was simple and conjured fear. She could see the look in Kate’s face. The girl threw her back against the metal chair, and it screeched from the force. “Why are you here?”

“You smashed my window, and a few displays, and I’m pretty sure you set off an explosive.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“With what, Kate?”

She paled at this. It was apparent that not only had her assets been frozen, but her mother’s as well. They barely had enough to cover legal fees, much less cosmetics that suffered the aftershock of the blow. She sighed and stared at the cold metal table. It was too scratched to show her reflection.

“I didn’t come here to make you feel bad, Kate. Calling law enforcement on your own mother is a ballsy thing to do. It also makes you a snitch. If you get charged, if you get locked up, it’s not something you’ll make it out of.”

“I know that.” She whipped her head up, eyes hard with anger. They softened after just a moment, to something scared. “I know.”

A silence fell over them both, one that Natasha let settle heavily on her chest. Kate was a spitfire, she was a spoiled girl who had a moment of clarity and turned her mother into law enforcement. She was regretting that now, shivering into herself, having to wait until after the holidays until anything could move from the stone it was trapped in.

Natasha had influence with the guards, and with the chief of police in this district. They had an understanding, and she fully intended to walk out of here with Kate Bishop under her wing. Not for free, of course. Natasha was charitable, but even her good deeds stretched so far.

“I’ve already paid your bail and they’re more than happy to release you into my custody.”

She scoffed “Your custody? I’m an adult.”

“You might be an adult, but you’re one without money, without a home, and I’m guessing everyone that’s still alive and free in your life isn’t too keen on taking you in.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay,” Natasha said in a breath, staring hard at the girl across from her. She looked so washed out under the harsh lights of the room. Despite her anger, her poisonous words, she reminded Natasha of a dog that broke free from her leash and had almost too much freedom to handle.

The woman stood, her chair sliding elegantly compared to the horrid noise that Kate’s had produced. Natasha moved to pull on her coat, covering the deceivingly hard muscles in her arms. Kate had pretended not to stare; but it was fruitless. All she could think about was what those hands had done, what they could do.

Of course, she felt some veil of safety with the cameras being here. Surely, someone would come in and pull Natasha back the second she started to advance on her, if she started to advance. The distance between them was closed and she sat on the edge of the table. Kate pushed herself flat against the back of the chair.

 Natasha didn’t do well with being told ‘no’. She also didn’t do well with expletives directed towards her instead of because of her. Natasha’s slender hand wrapped around the cold chain attached to Kate’s wrists, she pulled forward and Kate’s sore ribs collided with the edge of the table. She let out a dissatisfied grunt.

She grabbed the back of Kate’s head and slammed her cheek against the cold surface with a dull thud. Natasha didn’t’ let up on her weight, instead, she held her in the perfect position to maintain control.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Natasha knelt down, making eye contact with Kate. She pushed against the hold, but Natasha had the leverage. Kate flexed her fingers, still in chains. “You destroyed my storefront, and while I toyed with the idea of killing you for that alone, you’ve impressed me.”

“I’ve impressed you?”

Her words were smushed, drool pooling from her lips. It was almost comical, but Natasha pushed harder on the back of her neck, making her cry out. “I’m talking. When I’m talking, you’re not.”

She was met with silence and figured that was as good as she was going to get with this one. Her spit-fire reminded her a bit of Clint when he was younger. It made Natasha gravitate towards him, but this girl had a lot more to learn than her closest friend.

“You’re a spoiled little brat who crumbled one of the oldest clocktowers in the city. The habit didn’t’ seem to improve when your mother cut off your credit cards and that’s a dangerous thing. Getting the shit kicked out of you in jail might serve you well. So, by all means, you can try your luck, or you can follow me out of here so I can correct your behavior.”

Kate swallowed hard, but she didn’t’ say anything. Natasha’s first lesson seemed to be sinking in. After a few moments, she released the girl who sprang up like a jack in the box. She was giving Natasha the same look that she was used to, one of absolute fear. Her face was red and when she moved to wipe her chin of drool, she was stopped once again by her chains.

Natasha took pity on her, for just a moment, and used her thumb to ebb away the line of spit. Kate knew better than to pull back, instead she looked up at Natasha like a kicked puppy, making a small noise in the back of her throat.

“Anyone who stands up to Wilson Fisk is too valuable to kill for some property damage. But let me be clear, Kate, this is not a get-out of jail free card. You work for me. You belong to me. And we’re going to fix that attitude of yours.”

He had moved to the city during Kate’s senior year and wasn’t much for talking. Eli Bradley was as mysterious as they came. He was lanky and had deep brown eyes that were so dark they were nearly black in color. Eli wore a gold hoop in one ear, and while Kate would usually find something like that off-putting, it worked on Eli.

She played cello in the orchestra, first chair with pride, and he was modest with a viola. She made a point to make eye contact with him at least once a day, and eventually he started to return her small smiles. She thought the subtle way his lip quirked up at the corner was nothing but endearing.

In early October of that year, when the air was still crisp but not exactly cold, Kate had sat in the courtyard until the sun threatened to dip behind the horizon. She was avoiding going home to get ready for a party her mother was hosting and had worked it out so she could take the last bus uptown.

“Isn’t it a little dangerous for a pretty girl like you to be out here all alone? It’s getting dark.”

Kate frowned, but quickly retracted the expression when she made out the form of Eli Bradley and the silhouette of his viola case. It hung at his side like a briefcase filled with important papers. Instead, she hiked herself forward and leaned her elbows against her knees. He’d never spoken to her before.

“I’m a 9th degree red belt in Jiu Jitsu, and I have pepper spray. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Impressive,” Eli grinned “I guess it would be pointless to walk you home then, Kate Bishop.”

“I think I can make an exception, Eli Bradley.”

Kate did find herself making exceptions for Eli Bradley over the next few months. She would let him order for her, even if she didn’t find the dish he chose at all appetizing. She had to gently remind him that she was, in fact, allergic to shellfish and if she ate the pasta he insisted on she’d need an epi-pen.

He made up for it by being a gentleman and opening the car door for her when they pulled up to said restaurant.

Kate stepped behind Eli one winter evening when it was the type of dark outside that breeds bad behavior. A woman in a hoodie stepped out from an alleyway, twitching and with a wild look in her eyes. Kate could have easily disarmed her, could have gotten her someplace warm. Eli had delivered a hit to the stomach and pulled Kate along. It was a blur. But she’d never felt fear- just regret.

He made up for it by holding her tight that night, his warmth and sturdiness eventually lulled her to sleep and convinced her that maybe she could live with herself. Maybe she could live with Eli.

Clint Barton glowered at her over his bowl of cereal. Natasha didn’t know if it was some sort of interrogation technique, but it even made her uncomfortable. It was much too early in the morning and Kate’s wrists were still an ugly purple from how tight her cuffs had been. Natasha may have pulled a bit too hard, aggravating the already raw area.

“Your cheerios are going to get soggy,” Yelena entered the kitchen in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, scratching the exposed skin of her stomach with a stifled yawn. She stopped for just a moment to regard Kate, who sat up with a rim-rod quickness. “You always dump them down the sink and it makes the drain smell.”

Clint looked towards Natasha for help. She shrugged, adjusting the reading glasses on the bridge of her nose. She had pulled the paper in this morning and was very careful to remove the front page story of Kate’s mother and her set trial date. She may be cruel in some aspects, but psychological torture was Yelena’s department.

“Who is this?” Yelena asked, voice muffled by the chill of the refrigerator.

“This is Kate. She’ll be here for a while, and if she behaves well enough, she’ll be here longer than that. I expect both of you to regard her well and teach her everything you know.” Natasha took a sip of her steaming black coffee. “Hand to hand combat should not be an issue, isn’t that right, Kate?”

Kate waited a moment, remembering the sting of the table against her cheek. Natasha had asked her a question so it was okay to answer, right? It must be. She had a tendency to not stop talking once she started but it was clear from the prying eyes in the room that she was expected to reply.

“Yes,” She found her voice easier than she had in the jail. “I’m advanced in Jiu Jitsu, hand-to-hand combat, fencing, sword fighting, archery, kick-boxing. Once I used a set of staves from this really nice woman named Bobbi…”

She trailed off when she realized Clint had stopped fishing for the last cheerio and Yelena had cracked open a bottle of juice like she was snapping the neck of a small animal. Her cheeks turned a bright pink, and she averted her gaze.

Natasha smiled softly and took another long sip of her drink. The blonde woman, the one with the chiseled jaw and the striking green eyes, let out a hum. Her stare raked up and down Kate’s form, even while she was shrinking into herself.

“I will train her.”

“That’s not an option, Yel. I want to utilize her, not kill her.”

Kate’s head shot up at the word. She caught Clint’s stare, and he gave her a dejected shrug before pushing the little life-raft of a cheerio under the milk once more. He had no interest in eating it, just drowning it.

Yelena was smiling wolfishly, lilting her head to the side like it was the most innocent thing in the world. “Kill her? Sister, I would never. She’s clearly an asset. If you let Clint train her then she’ll be regressing.”

Kate watched the tension bounce back and forth between the two like a sadistic game of ping-pong. Yelena had just hit the little orange ball with enough force and trajectory to burn a hole directly through Natasha’s paddle.

She’d never dream of pushing Natasha in the slightest, much-less the way that Yelena did right now. Her body language was relaxed and quiet. The two of them stared at each other, and the newspaper was folded, discarded in favor of the stand-off.

“I will not kill her,” Yelena reassured, yet somehow, Kate hadn’t been assured the first time, nor the second time. “Give me a chance.”

Susan Bishop had a harder stare than Eleanor. She had inherited it from her, Kate was sure, but knew how to work it like a double-edged blade. Rarely would she look at Kate. Even rarer so was the two of them being in the same place for more than six minutes at a time.

Kate had her eyes downcast, pretending to read the same paragraph of the same book over and over again. Once she felt the sharp stare of her older sister on the side of her face, it shown brighter than the sun above them.

She’d been stretched out on a poolside chair, just enjoying the pungent scent of chlorine and the occasional low hum of a car passing their large home. It was too chilly for her to actually swim, but she had a fuchsia bathing suit under her long-sleeve shirt and jeans nonetheless.

Susan had settled into the seat next to her and let out a deep sigh as she typed quickly on her cellphone. Kate had cast her a sidelong glance, but quickly pretended to lose interest. They were going back and forth like this for a long, pregnant moment.

Eventually, Susan sighed and softly closed the book in Kate’s hand, not regarding the page that she was on. Kate didn’t mind much. Her older sister never did anything softly. Kate’s heart thrummed in her chest when their eyes met.

“Hi?” Kate cautioned.

“Hi. We need to talk.”

“What do you want?” There wasn’t anything Kate had that Susan didn’t. Hell- she could ask Eleanor for anything and would instantly get it. There were no rules for the eldest, responsible, child. All of that strangling focus was on Kate.

“I don’t want anything. I just want to talk. Sister to sister.”

“Right… sister to sister.”

“You need to break up with Eli.”

The statement through Kate back. It was like Susan had kicked her directly in the diaphragm. The oxygen in her lungs deflated and she stared at her sister in disbelief. Then in startled rage. What did right did Susan have to meddle in her relationship like this?

Kate wanted to tell her just that, but nothing came out except for the last squeeze of air that could be interpreted as a noise of discontent, but Susan never was good at reading signals and Kate needed a fleeting second to catch her train of thought after it had been so violently derailed.

“I get the appeal of the student athlete, I’ve had plenty of them myself, but Eli is not the man for you. You can do better.”

“Seriously? Is this mom speaking or you?”

“This is all me, sweetie.” She didn’t’ say it in a condescending way. In fact- Susan actually reached out and gently touched Kate’s bare arm. She tensed under her, but the hand wasn’t removed. Not even when dark grey eyes looked at her incredulously. “I don’t like the way he changes you.”

“Changes me? You think Eli changes me?”

“I think he makes you shrink and Bishop women are never meant to shrink.”

“That’s all mom has ever done.” Kate bit back venomously.

“Wrong. Mother has full control over Father, she just makes him think that he doesn’t. She’s the decision maker and if she has to keep a hand on his shoulder to do that, then so be it. The world listens to men, and looks at women. It’s how society is. But Eli? He’s binding your hands, not taking them.”

Kate shoved Susan’s hand from her arm and placed both feet on the ground. She didn’t have to listen to this… this practical stranger. Susan didn’t’ know what she was talking about, and neither did Eleanor. They were both ignorant to the way she felt about Eli and the way Eli felt about her. He wanted to the best for her.

Sometimes- she just had to remind him that she was allergic to shellfish.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” She gritted before standing. She disregarded her book, not that interested anyway, and began walking to the patio doors. Tears had started to sting her eyes. First out of sadness, and then maybe a mix of malice.

“He’s cheating on you.”

Susan said it so softly that could pretend she hadn’t heard it. The water filter for the pool was loud enough to drown out the statement. But she’d stopped with one foot on the bottom step of the patio and the other planted firmly on solid cement. Her nails dug stinging half-crescents into palm.

“You’re wrong.”

“Ask him.”

“I won’t,” She turned, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “Because I trust Eli. Maybe you could grant the same to me.”

Her childhood home held onto the darkness like a vice. A place that was once so maintained and bright was past falling into lawn decay. The pristine shrubbery had springing curls of foliage and the grass hadn’t been painted like her father insisted upon each year.

The structure stood strong, only a few months and some change abandoned. A small strip of tape on the mahogany door was the only indication that this had been an active crime scene at one point. The FBI had taped an order against it before they shattered the wood with a battering ram and raided the home.

Kate hadn’t been back since. She’d been living out of her Aunt Mira’s apartment and wearing her eccentric clothing. But the elder woman would be back soon and eventually she would need to get her own belongings back. If she didn’t, then squatters would when they realized just how vacant the home really was.

Yelena let out a low whistle as she peered up at the home, as if they didn’t live in one with the same amount of wealth. Even the tone she produced sent shivers down Kate’s spine. It had been four months since that day in the precinct.

Each day was spent from dawn to dusk in Yelena’s presence, and it never became easier for Kate. She was a bumbling and incompetent mess around the woman but had grown some kind of comfort in her presence. Kate no longer believed she was in danger at her hand specifically.

That didn’t’ mean that her body didn’t ache from the constant hell that Yelena had been putting her through to put her in ‘the peak performance state- Kate Bishop’. Yelena only said her first name and barked it at her if her pace lessened on one of their multiple-mile runs, or grueling weight training sessions.

Kate didn’t want to admit that she was entranced by the tone of Yelena’s muscles. She chalked it up to admiration, because that’s all it was. Admiration. And a bit of resentment. But Kate’s chest puffed out proudly when she noticed the way her own body began to change under Yelena’s tutelage. Enough that she was ready to go back to her old home for some closure, for some clothes.

Natasha shoved her keys into her pocket and fell in line on Kate’s right side. She peered up at the expertly crafted wood. It had begun to chip. Kate thought that was ironic; it had always been so pristine, but the more she thought about it, she’d often duck under a ladder to step into the foyer.

Bad luck all around, and a simple patch job that would crumble if not properly cared for.

“We can just buy you new clothes,” Natasha urged in that flittingly careful way that made Kate know she really did give a damn, but not if you asked. “You don’t have to go in there.”

“And add to the debt I already owe you for busting me out of jail?”

“I think she has to do this.” Yelena said firmly.

She was right. Kate had to do this. She was always handed everything in life so easily and it made her reckless, but far from undisciplined. It just took Natasha slamming her face against the cold metal of an unclean table for her to get some sense knocked back into her.

Kate had called the police on her mother. She’d done it after the knowledge of crimes committed festered and grew in her mind. It bred resentment in her mind until she came face to face with the fact that she wasn’t putting her mom away, she was putting a monster away.

Stepping through these doors would humanize her and it would cut Kate deep enough to draw blood. But then, she felt Yelena’s fingers on the small of her back. A light touch that was telling Kate that she wasn’t as alone as she thought she was.

The door let out a whine of protest when she pushed it open. They were met with a stale scent and a soft glow that ruminated from what Kate knew best as the living area. There was a grand piano that was mostly untouched, and large oak bookshelves that had multiple editions of old encyclopedias bound in leather.

She and Susan used to flip through them and try to pronounce the words by phonic spelling. They’d trace their little fingers over the inked illustrations and giggle if they had found something even remotely obscene. She remembers the word ‘Dam’ making them laugh until they couldn’t breathe.

Natasha’s hand darted out and pressed against Kate’s mid-section. Her other one grabbed the gun from the back of her pants. She shot the girl a sideways glance. “You left that on?” she mouthed.

Kate shook her head, her fingers itching for her own weapon. She didn’t have one. While Kate was an expert at professional archery and her aim wasn’t in question by anyone in the room- her familiarity with handguns with the serial number scratched off was minute. Yelena had pulled her own weapon, jaw firm.

Maybe squatters had broken in, and if they had, she’d gladly allow them to have the place. She just needed to stuff a duffel bag full of items and the small sentimental necklace she had gotten from her father as a child, and then she would be on her merry way.

Natasha stepped around the corner and raised her gun, screaming something that was drowned out by the startled yells of another. Kate recognized that yell, that rasp. She frowned, letting the tension in her shoulders drop before she got a good look at the living room herself.

It was incredibly lived in and lit by a single lamp that had it’s shade discarded. It was blinding and left spots in her eyes, but not enough to disregard the box of white sticky rice that had spilled all over the floor like maggots.

There was a makeshift bed on the couch and a few of those encyclopedias strewn about as if they were bedtime reading. In the center of it all; Eli Bradley with his hands up and a fork between his lips. His mouth dropped open and it fell to the floor with a dull thud.

He was shirtless, in a pair of boxers that Kate was pretty sure was her fathers. She was thankful she hadn’t eaten before this because the simple fact was enough to make her gag.

“Elijah?” She exclaimed.

“You know this guy?” Yelena asked, voice tight. She lowered her weapon, but Natasha kept hers in the same position it was before, trained right at his genitals and ready to shoot at a moments notice.

Kate wished with her entire body that she didn’t. His boxers held his athletic thighs, his deep brown eyes flashing to the guns aimed at him. Yelena was never a patient woman but somehow, in this moment, Kate knew deep down that she would be patient here. Her mouth was dry and her throat like sandpaper. It was incredibly hard to swallow.

“I’m her boyfriend.” Eli sounded out, his fingers twitching “I have a key.”

Yelena looked at Kate with pleading eyes, to which she received a nod in return. Kate supposed she hadn’t officially broken up with the man in front of her. The aimed weapons were lowered to the floor, but Natasha kept her hold. One false move and she wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through his bare foot.

“Yel, idi soberi yey sumku.”

Kate didn’t understand a lick of Russian, but she knew that Natasha’s tone was not to be questioned. Yelena holstered her weapon and slinked up the stairs. She’d be able to guess which room was Kate’s. The trophies and medals and photos tacked up to bulletin boards. It was the only room Kate was allowed to personalize, and even then, it was meant to be spotless.

Natasha must have caught onto the tension in Kate’s stance. She shoved her hands into her pockets, shoulders hunched and eyes submissive. It wasn’t something she wanted to see in her young trainee.

It wasn’t at all the woman that sat across from her in an interrogation room. Not even with her face her neck in Natasha’s grip. Something was wrong, and it was something stronger than Kate being back in her childhood home. That warranted sadness. But compliance? Absolutely not.

“Katie, baby. Who is this?” Eli asked. “Come on, you can tell me.”

When Kate opened her mouth to speak, Natasha held up a hand, instantly silencing her. The woman lilted her head to the side, unripe eyes taking in the scene in front of her; the discarded take-out containers, the balled-up socks in the corner of the room. The rain that had begun to pound against the roof and slather itself across windowpanes.

Natasha’s voice came out as a snarl “I’d love to introduce myself, but first, could you ask your little friend to come out from behind the curtains?”

Kate’s stare hardened and she whipped her head up accusingly. Still, she didn’t say a word. The wine-red Versailles fabric shifted; the view blocked by the grand piano but not enough for Natasha to ignore. Kate’s mother had spent hours looking over Swatches that would fit the room, and eventually chose the option that brought the room into a gothic elegance.

Kate didn’t need to wait to know who it was. Cassie Lang. Best friend, confidant, and exactly who Kate caught in bed with Elijah weeks before. But this was different. This was her home. It had already been violated by law enforcement. Torn apart just for two of her friends, people she trusted and loved, to take advantage of its vacancy.

“That’s better,” Natasha purred. Cassie was shaking because of the cold, wearing only a silk robe that belonged to Kate’s sister. “Now, let’s all have a chat.”

 “Kate, Katie, it’s not what it looks like. Just… tell your friends to leave and I’ll explain everything.”

Eli attempted to step towards her, hands no longer raised in caution but reaching towards Kate. Natasha felt a surge of anger lick against her skin. She stepped between them, splaying her hand out on his chest before shoving him recklessly onto the center of the couch.

He sprung back onto his feet, voice dripping in venom “Back off lady! I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend here!”

Natasha let out a sigh and crossed her arms over her chest before turning her gaze to Kate. Something about this situation was juvenile, but so important. Though she only had the girl under her care for a few weeks now, she felt nothing but warmth towards her.

She’d mislabeled her as a rich, undisciplined trust fund baby. Natasha didn’t’ often admit her mistakes but that had been one that weighed heavily on her. Sure, Katherine Bishop had a bit of an incorrigible sass to her, but it wasn’t unwarranted. Her boasting was backed up by actions true to her words. Strong, determined, actions.

Natasha hated how she was shrinking. Hated how this man had chipped away at her until she was hugging her mid-section to stop the thrumming pain of betrayal. She couldn’t’ find the words, they were lodged in her throat. There was the strong suspicion that if she hadn’t sent Yelena away, they’d be scrubbing blood from an imported carpet.

Something tole Natasha that Kate never got a choice in this relationship, and she wasn’t about to continue the toxic pattern that had led to her demure state.

 “Ketrin,” Natasha’s voice was soaked with her native tongue “Would you like me to take care of this?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, almost like a fish. Words escaped her. Natasha’s soft exhale brought her back to the room. Everything was fuzzy around the edges and reminded her of the first time she had pushed herself too hard in competition. She never lost consciousness but came close to it.

Yelena had successfully pilfered a duffel bag, having removed the sabers that resided there and filled it with whatever clothes she could find. Kate felt her stomach flip at the naive idea that the Russian woman had gone through her underwear drawer.

She flicked her eyes back to Eli, his chest heaving up and down as he eyed the gun still in Natasha’s grasp. Cassie was still like a statue, rubbing her palms on the silk fabric of her robe. She had the decency to look guilty.

“Take care of it.”

The words were barely more than a hurt whisper. She didn’t trust herself right now, not with the sharp pain that coursed through her veins. Tears had stung her eyes in the back of the detective’s car, but she didn’t know if that was on account of Eli or Eleanor.

Kate silently excused herself as the silence that settled over the room became thicker, palpable. Yelena’s deep stare was on Kate in a way that made her squirm. But she remained at the head of the stairs, even stepping to the side when Kate began to trek to a room that had already been rifled through. There was an unspoken agreement. Natasha would take care of it.

 “What’s your name?” she asked, directing the question towards the girl.

“Cassie.” Elijah answered.

Natasha held her hand up to him again, fingers barely ghosting his shoulder. He shivered at the near touch but snapped his mouth shut. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking her. Sweetie?”

“It’s Cassie… Cassie Lang.”

“Okay, Cassie.” She kept her voice soft, cajoling. “I want you to go home and get some rest. And under no circumstance are you going to call law enforcement. I’ll be informed immediately if you do so. Do you understand?”

She nodded frantically, keeping her head down as she moved to smooth past Natasha. The woman grabbed her sleeve, holding her in place for just a moment. She was so close she could smell the sex on her, see the sweat against her brow and the fear in her stare.

“Sweetheart. I suggest you learn to keep better company.”

Cassie let out a squeak that almost bled into a whine before taking advantage of Natasha’s loose hold. She darted with a quickness unseen, the door slamming behind her, the roar of the rain hissing to a muffled stop.

“And you?”

“What about me?” Elijah asked in a nauseatingly confident way.  

Natasha let out a long sigh and studied him. Everything from the way he stood to the faux dog tags that hung against his chest bled fury. This was exactly the type of man that would attract someone like Kate with a level of badger-like charm before clamping his jaw down on her throat.

Thankfully, Kate’s mother had fantastic taste in artwork. A bronze Clyde Ball piece lingered by the entryway. While he was known for his extensive statue work and abstract designs, Natasha liked that he used a heavier metal, one with a base that was easily grasped.

With a sly swing of the hand she connected the corner of the object with Eli’s temple. A flash of blood instantly stained his skin and splayed against the floor when he collapsed. Natasha dropped the artwork next to him. She let out a hum, figuring that a Clyde Ball may be worth purchasing after all.  

His truck had kicked up a rut in the normally spotless lawn. Eli had barely missed the mailbox with his erratic driving- which was bold considering the amount of unmarked and marked police vehicles that encircled Kate’s property.

Kate was sitting on the front steps, the concrete cold and unwelcome against the small of her back. They’d handcuffed her and her fingers were numb. Still, she flexed them when the commotion caught her attention. They didn’t’ bother with police tape, but a man in a wrinkled suit stopped Eli.

It took her a few long moments to realize that Cassie was in the passenger seat of the truck. She made eye contact with Kate, a look of sorrow forcing her to glance away. She was wearing Eli’s lettered jacket and naively, Kate convinced herself for a fleeting moment it had something to do with the busted heating vents in the old vehicle.

She knew better.

She’d smelled Eli’s specific spicy brand of cologne and deodorant on Cassie the last time they embraced. His lips tasted of the bubblegum ChapStick that Cassie had worn everyday since the six grade when Kate landed on her during a game of spin the bottle. Admittedly, she felt more during that kiss than anything she’d ever shared with Eli.

Kate adjusted her shoulder against the hold of the cuffs. They were uncomfortable, digging into her wrists. Even if she wanted to break out of them, she couldn’t. She was a nervous fidgeter and Elijah was using some degree of charm to weasel his way past the officer blocking him. Just as he’d weaseled his way into Cassie’s pants.

“Oh my god, Katie.” He rushed out when he got to her, kneeling down on the damp sidewalk. It was unnaturally cold and they hadn’t let Kate pull on a jacket over the tank top she wore for her morning run. His hands ran down her thighs and squeezed her knees. “Fuck, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Kate’s stare brushed past Elijah blankly and to the fogging up window of his truck. If Cassie hadn’t already been wearing his jacket, she was sure he’d offer it to her, an offer she would vehemently deny. All of his charm, his commanding power, had been washed away with her mothers as she ducked her head and settled into the back of a squad car. One that probably had heat.

“Jesus, I heard that this place was swarming with cops. What did you do?”

“What did you?”

“I don’t… Katie, babe, come on.” He glanced back at the car and when he turned to face Kate once more, their eyes locked. He didn’t’ need to say anything and neither did she. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Kate felt the warmth of Detective Brigid O’Reilly behind her. She wasn’t a stranger to Kate, but she acted like one when she tightened the cuffs around her wrists. Temporary informant or not, Kate was still a Bishop and they weren’t trusted in this town.

“Miss Bishop. It’s time to go.”

Her forearm was gripped and she was pulled to her feet with a grunt. Her legs were numb, needles rushing through them. Part of her was grateful for being dragged away. The other part was terrified, sad, hurt and angry. They’d all betrayed her.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Fifteenth precinct. Don’t waste your breath, kid. She’ll be indisposed for a few hours. Take your little girlfriend home.”

He winced at the detective’s words and averted his stare to the ground. Kate let herself get let to the unmarked Lincoln town car. At least she’d save the humiliation as the whole lights and sirens routine.  

Most of the time, they didn’t wake up screaming, but Elijah did. His senses were overwhelmed, and his body instantly registered the cold and the slickness of muck beneath him. Even over the brutal beating of falling rain, he could hear the cars that swept past on the highway.

His head was pounding, and the headlights of vehicles passing over the highpoint of evergreens only served as something more disorienting. It was only when a crack of lightening flashed across the sky did he notice the woman standing over him, a shovel slung over her shoulder.

So, he screamed, and he swore she smiled at the sound.

He turned over on his stomach and coughed into the mud, his toes not finding purchase in the mud. Natasha’s boot came down on the center of his back and he found himself sprawling, tasting a mix of metal and dirt. He realized that he underestimated the situation Kate had gotten herself into.

“Good morning, Elijah.” She crowed, dropping the shovel next to his face, barely missing his brow. He flinched and shrunk into himself. “I have a job for you.”

She used the tip of her shoe to flip him over onto his back. The falling rain that had gotten through the pine needles above him hit his face in a cooling effect. He saw another set of headlights, eyes darting towards the road. Maybe if he yelled loud enough, all of this would be over.

“I need you to dig a hole.”

“What?” He panted out, his breath leaking out in puffs of condensation. “a hole?”

“Mm, glad I didn’t rupture an eardrum. It needs to be a big hole. How tall are you?”

“I don’t… What?”

Natasha knelt next to him, a sadistic smile falling from her lips. Instead, it was replaced with something darker. Almost as if a flip was switched. Her deep red hair was adhered to her forehead from the rain, her jaw clenched and unclenched.

“I don’t know you, Elijah. But, I know Kate and that girl has been through hell and back. She’s guarded and hides behind her humor to deflect the pain that she’s experiencing. And to me… it seems like you’re a big catalyst here.”

His breathing had become shuddered. Natasha grabbed the shovel before standing and delivering a swift kick to his side. His ribs instantly ached and a cry escaped him. She wanted him to right himself and to safe another deadly spark of pain, he complied.

She had, in fact, started a small divot where she expected him to dig. Tears were running down his face, small sobs muffled by his determination to put on a front. She didn’t’ find any admiration in his sniveling. Instead, she let him scoop out three frothy loads of dirt before she continued, circling like a lion.

His hands had started to bleed.

“She believed in you enough to trust you and you turn around and fuck her best friend?” Natasha got close, yelled over the rain. He stuttered in his movements, clenched his eyes shut. “Don’t stop digging! Was she not enough for you?”

Elijah stuck the tip of the shovel back into the soup of rainwater and mud. It was a black slush at this point, something he could drown in if he laid facedown for long enough. “She was… she was.”

“Then why did you do it, huh? You took everything she was and whittled her down to nothing before discarding her for someone else you could break. Is that it? Did that make you feel more like a man?”

He didn’t’ respond, instead, moving another round of slop to the side of a hole that was starting to look more and more like a grave. He was up to his knees in cold, unforgiving water. His toes flexed in the icy earth.

“Answer me!” She yelled with enough anger to split earth. However, Natasha didn’t give him the chance. She dug her nails into the back of his neck and shoved him forward into the muck. He could taste dirt, words bubbling.

Elijah groaned and brought himself to his knees. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding in his throat. He was crying loudly now, sitting back on his heels. Natasha was above him, standing on the edge of the grave he had just dug. Headlights flashed over her cold stare.

“If you’re feeling helpless, Elijah, so was she. Kate needed you, and you weren’t there for her. She was suffocating, and everyone could see it, but you kept her just out of reach, didn’t you?”

“Yes! Yes,” He groaned out, digging his fingers into the soft earth. “Fuck, yes. I hurt her, I know that.”

“Lay down.”

“What?” His voice broke.

“You’re going to lay here until morning.” She knelt down “You’re not going to move a muscle.”

“I’ll drown,”

“You might.” She growled, taking account of the heaviness of the rain, the way the tires of passing vehicles sloshed around in the collected puddles. “But at least you’d understand how Kate felt.”

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

[thesmpisonfire]

RATTLING IN MY CAGE

Okay. Okay. Okay. So. I finished watching the Prison Escape Vod and BY GOD i have thoughts about cubito Pac e Mike

Let's dive in

(@spreens dragging ur ass to read this bc u asked for it)

GOD. FIRST THING. This stream just made it SO CLEAR how their love language is physical touch. How being close and touching each other or even just the reassurance they could leave their cells to be with each other is important to them. Before they were let out, Pac was panicking, emotions being all over the place and pouring out while Mike did the exact opposite, closed himself shut and waited (The exact opposite to what they are. Mike is the emotional bomb, while Pac has better handle of his intensity)

First thing they did when set free was to run and get close, walking pressed together side by side. The first time they sat with Walter Bob, they also sat side by side

And not only to each other they do this, but they extended it to Walter Bob as well. Mike's constant hugs and Pac walking rlly close or choosing to sit by Walter Bob's side even when it was impractical to do so. They know how isolating and scary it is to be in prison, to feel like you're alone and small, so they both made sure to always let Walter Bob know they were there for him

ALSO. Now to Pac and Mike characterization

Pac had his time to shine as the "Innocent" one once again. He loves to pretend he doesn't know what is going on or act way more scared as he truly is. He likes to pretend he's weak and can only lean on his words to get out of trouble. The thing with Pac is that he IS a good fighter, he was one of the front lines of the timer dungeon, he was ready to beat the shit out of the fake chayanne and tallulah in case they had ran after Richas, even if he was unsure if he should. He's quick on his feet and he's good analysing the situation he's in and how he can win. Which also means he knows damn well when he doesn't has the advantage, and in these cases he'd much rather not fight and instead talk his way out, even if it means being beaten up for a while (or lose a leg). His stealth and agility, plus being people smart, helped him to grab the keys from the backpack. The fact he wears his heart on his sleeve and a smile is quick to appear on his face also helped him get an easier time with the guards, getting better food and even being let alone to roam for a bit, which is when Fit found them. When Mike hit the guard, Pac first thing was to analyse the situation and then run to hit the guard as well, as he noticed they had a good chance of winning

Mike, as always, took the place as the "brains" of the whole thing. The thing with Mike is that he likes to pose as the threatening one, the most dangerous and angry. He yelled at guards and swore and talked shit about everything, which is what gave Pac space to be the 'good' inmate, when more often than not Mike is way more bark than he is bite. He isn't sure of his pvp abilities as of normal and much rather lean on his machines or on Pac to do the job. The prison escapade also put a light on how heartfelt Mike is. He hugged Walter Bob every chance he had, he was always outspoken about bringing Walter Bob with them, he yelled to the guards to defend his friends. Mike is the most serious liar and the one to come up with plans as he feels better planning everything ahead of him. Mike is explosive, which is why he was the one attacking the guard instead of Pac, the pvper. He is a man with anger and strength for a single, demolishing attack. He wanted to defend his best friend and Walter Bob, so he fucking jumped into action. In any other kind of fight, Mike wouldn't do that. He couldn't fight against the bull as he was caught out of surprise, he couldn't hold himself in the dungeon as he can't plan middle chaos, he was completely out of his element against the codes due to shock. But, jumping and immediately started attacking on impulse, a surprise attack? That Mike can do, and he did

Their relationship with Walter Bob is special since they already had a bond with him. He's their friend and they were ready to do anything to take Walter Bob with them. He was the missing piece to make all of this work, the outsider out of their bubble that helped them see things they wouldn't as they are linked together and often on the same line of thought. Pac e Mike wanted him to be happy and have a chance to be himself, they wanted him as part of the family

Losing Walter Bob was a hard hit to them. It made the whole escape turn into failure as he was already an extension of the duo, in a way. And Mike has the tendency of blame himself, always. He still blames himself for Richas' death and he blames himself for Walter Bob being taken, to the point of ignoring Pac and refusing his touch as he doesn't deemed himself of worthy of care. And Pac once again is by his side to pick up the pieces that have been broken, as he always does

This whole stream was. Such a MEAL for characterization. I didn't even go deep about the guards or about this new part of the Federation. Im reeling in cubito's feelings and I'M LOVING IT

[redisaid]

Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

[seat-safety-switch]

You might be surprised to hear that every arena of human endeavour has weird perverts who try hard to rattle the cage of normal, hard-working people. For me, it's obviously my vast collection of rattle-trap Malaise Era semi-destroyed vehicles. I've always been interested in meeting freaks in other industries and hearing long diatribes about extreme technical details that I don't really care about, so when my cousin finally retired from his job at the newspaper, I lifted his "Press" pass from his bedroom dresser when he thought I was having a heart attack at Thanksgiving dinner.

Turns out I didn't really need to do that, because my dentist is one of those freaks. One of those accidents of geographic proximity brought him to me, and we became fast friends once we each realized what the other had to offer. Dr. Incisor (not his real name; also potentially not a doctor) had a thing for fixing the absolute worst mouths that he could find. Years of working a boring suburbanite dentist clinic had taken their toll on his sanity: fill this cavity, lecture about flossing, do that root canal. Nothing truly ambitious, not at all like the dentists he would read about as a boy in bicuspid-adventure novels.

His deal was simple: he'd pay me in nitrous oxide, under the table. Finally, I could return to the drag strip and beat my rival, Steve "Nipples" Hemingway, in the eighth-mile with the help of a gaseous power-adder blowing its way through the rings of my exceptionally low-compression Slant Six beneath the dimpled hood of one of my many shitrods. In exchange, he expected me to bring to him what he called "project mouths."

If I could locate the worst teeth in the city, and drag them before him, he wouldn't even charge them for dental work. He would, however, broadcast it on his live Twitch channel, which it turns out violated a whole shitload of medical-privacy laws. I told him from the start that he should have dressed up like a cartoon lion, or at least used an anime girl vtuber, but he insisted that the "cowards of medicine" face him on equal footing as he descended into the molar (and moral) hells I placed before him.

I'll never forget his frenzied, angry screaming as they dragged him off to prison for malpractice. Don't worry, I stayed behind to make sure the clinic nitrous tank was safely discharged. Don't want any firefighters showing up. Those folks can be real freaks when they see a cool oxidizer-involved fire.

[yiga-hellhole]

TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING, CHAPTER 17

hello everyone i'm back!! sorry for the wait. i'm happy to bring you the next installment, slipping back into the Hyrule Warriors main plot: THE BATTLE OF THE TRIFORCE. Arms in hand, the Demon King's troops join to settle a conflict as old as time. Hyrule will not go down without a fight, but a fight is precisely what they've hungered for. This day, the Triforce will be bound to but one Chosen's palm - but whose?

this one is um... beefy... hope you enjoy!

CONTENT WARNINGS THIS CHAPTER: graphic depictions of violence, brainwashing/fatal possession, animal harm/death

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

ao3 mirror

It was a monster of such volume that the air whistled and soared as it moved. Trapped in the dungeons of Gerudo Palace, the newest asset to their already venerable menagerie of monsters was adjusting to its new home. Poorly, that is. The Molgera whined, contorted, and pressed its massive, fleshy face to each corner, as if enough rooting around would magically create an opening in solid stone. Spikes rattled against the metal cage as the heaving beast slithered in its confinement. Cacophonous, like a hundred prisoners banging their cups against the bars in begging. Ghirahim stood hands at his sides before the bars of this colossal cage, fighting back the urge to poke at the beast and agitate it some more. From the tension building behind him, though, it’d seem the most amusement was to be found on this side of the prison.

“Cooked up something nasty again, didn’t you, Zant?” Wizzro wheezed. His laughter was like that of a pneumonic man on his deathbed. 

The necessary arrangements now logged into the massive volume hovering before him, the living heap of cloth and malice patted a decrepit, clawed hand far too affectionately on the end of one of the creature’s spikes. It recoiled nearly instantly. “I want partial credit for this one, you hear?” Wizzro sneered. The glowing eye at the center of his face squinted shut to morph into a grinning mouth. “If it weren't for me showing you through the Lady’s volumes, you’d still be nose-deep in the books by now!”

Zant stood aside, watching the wicked sorcerer’s machinations with his usual cold patience. “You will be duly acknowledged for your secretary duties, Wizzro, but the arcane achievements were my own.”

Wizzro clicked his tongue, shooting a nasty glare at his casual defiance. He seemed only mildly distracted by the gaping mouth now hovering wide open at the other end of the cage. A tendrilous tongue, one long bulb at its end, stuck out towards him. “Pah. Whatever. I’ll make sure this thing is appointed to the right trainer,” Wizzro dismissed with a wave of his hand, turning instead to the strange shape poking and prodding at him.

As if all sense abandoned him at once, the ring spirit seized the decoy organ with both his clawed hands with great interest. The Molgera let out another wicked screech, sending spittle to drizzle (almost) all three men from its maw, as it lunged forward. Its gummy jaws slammed against the bars, prompting nothing but a cackle from Wizzro. “It’s an interesting one, to say the least!”

Ghirahim opted to watch these events from a healthy twenty feet away, while Zant simply grumbled, wiping his helmet clean. “That it is. I’d advise you to keep it intact before we strike Hyrule Castle.”

The dejected Molgera, curling up listlessly in its cage, seemingly accepted its fate as its arrangements were scribbled down in their finality. Each temper fickle in their own way, the pair of dark wizards settled the last logistics of their monstrous stocks before their patience mutually wore thin. 

It was Zant who attempted to draw their conversation to a close, but not without drawing a last bit of ire. “We will meet again at the siege, then. Our forces arrive from the north, and you-”

Wizzro snapped at him instantly, cutting past him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming from the South, anticipating their backup, and whatnot. You needn’t drill me on this, Warlock,” he gestured wildly as he spoke, slapping the massive logbook shut and dismissing it in a puff of smoke. “We got the correspondence! We had the briefing! It’s all in order. Other than delivering this beast to us, you have no business sticking your nose in our plans!”

Ghirahim felt a sudden boring of a bright red eye in his back. He’d been perfectly content before to linger at the sidelines, amusing himself with the bickering of the other men, but could not help a coy flourish when a jagged nail was pointed at him. Wizzro gestured at him with a mild frown. “Also. Why is he here?”

Zant’s helmet covered his face, but his smile carried in his voice. His helmet creaked a little as he turned to face his compatriot. “Any good King needs a chaperone, wouldn't you say?”

“Hiya-hah-hah!” Wizzro shrieked in laughter. “Again with the shticks! What I’d say is that the ‘King’ part is already doubtful, but ‘good’ is entirely off the table, you maniac!”

Clearly, this amusement was not mutual. The Twili had tolerated Wizzro’s ceaseless nonsense up until that point, but no longer. As if a candle had been snuffed, his temper snapped, and an enraged squeak echoed past his visor. He whipped back towards Wizzro, looming over him and balling his fists in his sleeves. “You wouldn't know a King if one’s fingers were shoved knuckle deep into your-”

“Gentlemen! I feel like we all have business to attend to,” Ghirahim interjected, blinking himself between the two men with a hand each, grazing their faces. “As much as you ripping each other to tatters would amuse me, Master Ganondorf would put me back in my box and throw me to the dragonets for letting any such shenanigans happen.”

Both of the robe-clad adversaries growled at the interruption as much as they did at each other, and so childishly exchanged a scowl in the line of sight that passed over Ghirahim’s head. 

Zant dusted off the apron at his chest in an uncharacteristically pompous gesture. “Business we have, indeed. Let us depart at once, Ghirahim. Our time is better spent that way.”

Just as Ghirahim was about to turn and glare at him for yet another inciting remark, Wizzro made his immediate disinterest quite clear with a loud, hacking, drawn-out clear of the throat, and the turning of his back on his fellow commanders.

The pair of them chuffed out a simultaneous laugh at the display, before in equal coincidence reaching out for the other’s hand. Fingers bumped, ears tinged the slightest red, and their hands clasped. With a chime and rustling echo, Ghirahim and Zant disappeared together, leaving behind Wizzro to dark devices they’d prefer not to witness.

A nearly-collapsed outpost was to be their haven. Mere days before, this very fort had been raided by their forces. Their efforts tore down two of its three watchtowers and fashioned its gray brick walls with gaping holes. It would shelter their supplies and some of their men, but by far not all of them. Such a shoddy hideout was a statement; they had not a single intention of pulling back. Hyrule would fall at their feet today, and the Triforce was theirs for the taking.

Their formation gathered at the base of a nearby cliff, the platform itself elevated above Hylia River to the east. For the time being, they were sheltered from sight, but their advance had surely been sighted. Ghirahim could smell the pungent fear that lingered in the air. This quiet would not last long.

Ghirahim stood at the center of the formation, with Zant at the west-most end, and Yuga and his Master at his flanks. Though focused on the path ahead, he could not help an occasional glance to his left. He hadn’t yet seen Yuga on the battlefield proper and certainly wasn’t used to the sight of her in armor. Her curls spilled out from underneath a horned, brass helmet. Her armor was, in general, rather minimal, covering not more than her shoulders, her head, and her torso in a golden luster. Such was the outfitting of a spellcaster, he supposed. 

His eyes then strayed to the right, lingering in momentary awe on the mighty form of his Master, before an unexpectedly bared face stared at him from further away. Zant had lifted the front of his helmet and waited for him to meet his gaze.

He looked at him with the same eyes he cast at him that morning. Small, squinted, and affectionate, peeking at him just past the thick fluff of his comforter. 

“You stayed.”

Ghirahim, equally buried under the heap of blankets, blearily turned to him. Some distance had been put between them in all their tossing and turning, and he found something shifting under the covers. Zant’s hand was seeking to grasp onto him. He laid his hand in his trajectory, and thought his smile contagious when the Twili indeed found him, squeezing firmly.

Yet, Ghirahim teased him with a frown. “Of course I did. I’ve been staying over, watching you sleep those wasteful hours away, much before.”

Zant blinked. “Yes, but you were distant until recently,” he reasoned with a bit of a fluster, before burying his face further into the comforter and mumbling his next words. “I don't know. Perhaps it's silly.”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied, meeting his hesitant, embarrassed face with a fond smile.

And how infectious that fondness was! Zant giggled softly, scooting just a bit forward to have him within arm’s reach. Those ghostly fingers glided over his arms, to his face, and caressed him there. Zant touched him carefully, yet purposely, as if his very hands would gild him. Peering at him with such infatuation, something sadistically giddy lit up behind those amber eyes. Zant laced their fingers as he spoke, his smile cracking open the slits at the corners of his mouth. “... Watch me today, Ghirahim-ili.”

The warmth of their bed that morning may have been taken from them in the wind’s chill, but their connection did not falter for even a second. Zant turned away, folding his helmet back in place, but demanding he looked at him, either way. He’d entered the field empty-handed and announced that unarmed state’s end with the flexing of his fingers. When he brandished his weapon, he did not carelessly whip the two scimitars from his sleeves as he usually did. This time, he balled his fists before his chest, a crackling, fizzling orb of magenta light pouring from between his fingers. Its grip clutched in his hands, the Scimitar of Twilight appeared, glowing fiercely in red. Zant at once swung it over his shoulder, metal clanking heavily on metal. 

Before the sight of him could make Ghirahim swell with pride all too much, the raising of King Ganondorf’s hand snapped him back to focus. A shudder down his back straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and guided his hand to his hip, where his sword sat sheathed. 

Ganondorf marched to the front of his formation, bronze boots pounding on stone. He turned, his vibrant red hair whipping in the wind. A stern glare graced his features as he looked out over the troops, but standing so close to him, Ghirahim saw the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk behind his tusks. Master was confident – so he would be, too.

“Gerudo, Demons, Monstrous Tribes, and those that joined us from beyond the Veil of Death, hear me,” he shouted, his booming voice rattling through their skulls. “Across the Ages, my past lives have waged war against Hyrule, and all but once, we failed. We have been humiliated, banished, and eradicated from history, but no longer. Time is on our side now, my brethren. With the Triforce within our grasp, the Age of Demons is upon us.”

Ganondorf grinned, baring his tusks and wrinkling his fiery eyes. Sword raised to the sky, he thundered forth his promise. “Hyrule will fall!”

With this final rallying call, their forces pulled out. Cavalry scouts burst past their frontlines, hooting and hollering atop hogs and horses. Oh, how Ghirahim yearned to set out in the same way! Still, no longer could he chase simple carnage. Not only had he a reputation to uphold, but their formation had to be perfectly tight for this initial stretch. His battalion trailed tightly behind him, each unit led by demons and living armor – ever his favorite. Those that didn’t simply win his favor in skill just reminded him of home.

Zant, too, led his troops with remarkable poise. His soldiers rushed past him, but his towering height and flashy garbs continued to catch the eye. The soldiers rushing past him may as well have been see-through, for Ghirahim saw him clear as day, framed in zoetropic image. 

He could see it all. His hands were firm on the hilt, his swings were smooth. He slid across the floor like that massive blade weighed nothing, with a stance no mere Hylian could topple. Each move was more calculated than the next, gliding from pose to pose almost mechanically. Zant was… Perfect, almost, theoretically. Such swordsmanship was a cold one, devoid of character beyond what could be conveyed in a manual. Zant was a puppet to his own knowledge, stern in what he’d learned. He showed nothing at all of the fierce, impassioned recklessness he unleashed when it was just the two of them.

This, too, was a message. Ghirahim hardly had time to think of its meaning when he himself was engaged in combat and drowned his fluster in bloodlust.

Bloodlust was not kept to him alone. As more and more Hyruleans forced past their frontlines, Zant grew overwhelmed. Bit by bit, that discipline chipped away. 

The poor sods. They had no idea the Twilight King fought his best when unshackled.

Now content with his display, Zant ramped up his ferocity. With a single stomp, a deep black shock wave sent the four soldiers around him staggering, allowing him to pierce through the first of them unimpeded. His shoe planted on the standing corpse’s chest, he ripped the blade free and used its blood-streaked momentum to dismember the next in line. Projectiles from his sleeves, pulses from his feet, and the shadowy rays from his sword pieced together in a complex web of arcane and martial arts – not so different from how he’d fought before, but adding an elegance that was so sorely missed.

His lover wasn’t half bad, he grinned to himself, watching the man’s battalion split off and head up into the Rockface Hills to claim whatever awaited them there. 

Three battalions remained in their cluster. Soon it would be two. 

A whistling in his ear and an uncanny instinct of foreboding dread alerted him to something awry in the east. Before the first moblin behind him could cry out in alarm, Ghirahim had already identified the source of his concern, his core chiming and blinking on pure instinct. 

For the first split second, it could have been mistaken as a flaming cloud, tearing through the air with the glare of the sun obscuring its flight. A volley of burning arrows nearly went unnoticed, had he not shouted for shields, and raised a barrier around himself and the captains at either of his sides.

The only commander he could see, and he hoped he’d heard his warning, was Yuga. A panicked wave of his scepter betrayed that he’d turned to the source of the noise just a touch too late. With a yelp, Yuga raised one of his portraits to shield himself, but his startle made him careless. The bolts thwacked into the ground at his feet, each missing its mark until a single one didn’t, and buried itself into his lower leg. 

The earlier gasp of panic forced itself out of him with a horrid shriek, and a wobble of his stance. Kept upright only by the desperate support of his staff, he composed himself, but in body only. In an instant, Lorule’s finest sorcerer turned rotten in temper and was eager to let the world know.

“I would say you’d rue the day you crossed me, but when I’ve finished, you will be naught but ashes in the wind!” Yuga hissed. Yuga spat. His normally so dainty hands grasped the arrow in his leg firmly, before snapping off its length, leaving only a splintered stump lodged by his ankle. 

It took one stumble for him to realize he could not walk with such an injury, but he refused to back down. Purple swirls of malice radiated off of him as Yuga began to hover above the floor, bracing his staff in a knuckle-whitening grip. Gnashing his teeth, he glared down the troops beyond the cliff and screeched his curses in all their brutality. “Foul wretches! Maggots beneath my boot! Return to the rotten flesh you crawled from, hideous things!” 

His feet now off the ground, Yuga launched himself forward at breakneck speeds, his curls nearly uncoiling themselves in his haste. One swing of his staff and the portraits that circled him spun around him like a whirlwind, each spewing a hellfire of lightning into the swarm of men he forced himself through. That draconic trail scorched itself into the grass as he soared by, cleaving through whatever once stood in his way. The sorcerer disappeared into the crowd, the sounds of carnage overpowered only by the throat-rending cackle that roared free from the banshee of this battlefield. 

Not a moment was wasted. Soon, red and scaled hides filled in the cracks weaving through the Hyrulean frontlines, as bokoblin and lizalfos alike rushed to seize this vital opening. 

Distractions now out of the way, Ghirahim felt oddly relieved. Being the sole commander now at Ganondorf’s side caused the thrum of his pulse to soar. The Eastern Keep was drawing nearer, and conquering it would break them all into the wider Hyrule Field. 

A blue-clad soldier closed in on him but was swiftly kicked out of the way for the crime of disrupting his thought process. With the onset of enemy soldiers pouring in through the gates, his once so-perfect formation was refusing its emulsion. Frontmen skewered each other on their pikes at both sides, a battle of endurance to see who could wrestle the clutches of death the longest. Their collapse meant the line of soldiers behind them breaking through, blending gold and silver in their raging strife. A wicked force tore through the minds and bodies of the warriors, and her name was Furore; a mass, blinding anger, of knowing that if either force failed, they would fail for good. Yet in her mantle she carried glee, the joy of battle, to motivate them with more than fear. For it was this fear that, were it to overpower their minds, would make them not more than beasts! 

Ghirahim was no mere recipient of this force. He seized it, made it his own, and knowing that mayhem would soon reign, lit the embers within. His eyes flit to the side, burning pupils catching on a beloved target. Ganondorf, too, was entangled in battle, cutting down the few soldiers that dared to approach him. Such foolishness made for a fine warm-up, perhaps, but the smallfry was by far not worth the Gerudo King’s effort. They ought to breach into more challenging grounds!

Launching himself forward, Ghirahim bounded for the keep. A devastatingly easy prospect: break in; clear it out; take out their commander. It was an easier task than usual. Being the only entryway to the northern Hyrule Field, the Keep’s gates were swung wide open, spewing out platoon after platoon. He just had to worm his way through.

In such an enclosed space, controlling the crowd was child's play. Frankly, most thinking went into just what was the most amusing way to take care of this little problem. He stood perched atop the drawbridge, pondering his approach as the soldiers surged below him like a tidal wave. Stuffing a cork in that seemed like a prime first choice. 

With a snap of his fingers, a barrier burst into view, putting an immediate stop to the Hyruleans’ advance. He hardly had to do a thing after, Ghirahim noted with amusement. Not expecting a sudden wall, the frontmost soldiers slammed face-first into the diamond-spangled forcefield. With some luck, some would have been stabbed or crushed purely on accident in the jostle… But he’d see that when he got there. Padding leisurely across the upper footbridge, he made his way to the keep’s balusters, where about a dozen archers waited for him.

Bolts plinked uselessly off his skin. With a leap, he bridged the distance between them, and let them taste the bloody merits of a melee fighter firsthand.

He’d hardly finished with the lot of them before the first of the soldiers he’d trapped down there came running up the stairs. Ghirahim grinned, relinquishing his grip on the larynx he’d just crushed and dropping the poor wretch to the ground. The Hyruleans funneled straight for him, barreling in a line as neat as angry men could manage. Ghirahim could taste their blood already.

Soon, he did. He drove his blade down the collar of the frontmost soldier, piercing the gap in her gorget, and kicked her down the stairs before she’d even finished dying. For a moment, the crowd stumbled, balance lost under the deadweight piled on top of them, but their haste won over their supposed respect for their deceased. The corpse was callously tossed to the side, plummeting into the crates and barrels below. 

Such was how Ghirahim held the stream of warriors at bay. Even though the piles of bodies and half-alive things grew ever greater, every new batch of soldiers seemed to reach higher and higher steps near him. It wasn’t until one of them bore down on him, pushing to force him back, that he noticed just how many of them were teeming in the lower levels. Peeking past the railing, the keep seemed to be more crowded than it was when he’d started. Ghirahim shook himself free with a shout, stabbing through the offending soldier’s gut to throw him off the stairs, but found three more of them surrounding him. 

He’d bitten off a little more than he could chew. Reinforcements were in order. Hand raised, he braced ready to snap his fingers and rid the entrance of its barrier…

… Until a sudden presence materialized in the center of the fort. A massive shockwave followed, deep dark and full of hatred, sending every single soldier that set foot in the Keep either out the gates or into the wall. 

Zant, scimitar on his shoulder, stuck out his arm, pointing a pallid finger at a flashy-looking soldier that lay hunched over and dazed in the far corner.

“Found you.”

Suddenly forgetting all about the soldiers surrounding him, Ghirahim vaulted off his high ground and joined the Twili’s side.

“You don’t intend to steal my thunder, do you?” Ghirahim prodded, nudging his co-lieutenant on his bloodied sleeve.

Zant chuckled in response. “You looked like you could use some assistance. I’ll leave the final strike to you, but do not dawdle. More of them are coming.”

How dishonorable, to have to deliver the mercy strike on a dying man! He approached the opulent knight – a Caster himself, whose aura tied to the southern gates. The man panted, twilit runes festering on the bare skin of his palms as he reached for the Demon before him. Whether he pleaded for mercy or sought to ready some sort of spell, Ghirahim couldn’t quite tell. Nor did he really care.

Blood trickled down pearlescent armor as Ghirahim’s sword skewered through his throat. A last gasp sucked through the gaps around the blade, bubbling the blood that spurted free in an obscene rattle. The tip of his blade scraped past bone, picked at the cartilage. Such sounds alone, that carried from his sword into his core and truly made his body and weapon one, were almost enough to make him forget the outside world.

But it didn’t, for with the life of the Keep Captain, so too was the golden barrier extinguished. Finally, they could move for greener pastures, and he would see his Master truly in action.

Flanked by his two remaining commanders, the Demon King strode on, mocking the shining ostentation of the distant Hyrule Castle with his glory. Where any other royal would shelter behind the might of his army, Ganondorf broke past it, crowning his frontlines with his presence. Even with the oceanic vastness of the troops behind him, all eyes, all dread, were focused on the sight of him alone. 

Truly, what a sight he was! The very air itself howled in pain as he swung those massive blades. Just one strike of darksteel sliced common armor to ribbons, its sheer size taking out a dozen men in the blink of an eye. Where Zant prevailed in wild strength, and Ghirahim mastered bloody precision, their King encapsulated these martial styles into one deadly whole.

The trampled grass of Central Hyrule Field now under their feet, the three men looked onward, their eyes on the nearest gate to Hyrule Castle grounds. With its gates firmly locked, spiked barricades littering the paths, and wooden shelterings strewn to hide soldiers unknown, this Keep would prove to be a tough nut to crack. Neither of his companions commented on it, but the occasional sheen of metal between the battlements clued Ghirahim in on archers at the ready, too.

“It seems their efforts are focused on guarding this keep, Master,” Zant proclaimed, bounding his way next to the Gerudo King’s side with a slither in his gait. “They can only guard the palace from so many angles. Surely, their Northern bridges are less fortified… It may cost us some time to travel ‘round, but it would give us better chances at overwhelming their defenses.”

Ganondorf grunted and furrowed his brow. “And do you volunteer to such a plan?”

Eagerly clutching the grip of his scimitar with both hands, Zant giggled, nodding strongly enough to bob his helmet. “Yes, Sire. My squadron and I can force such a measly gate in no time flat.”

With that answer, Ganondorf turned from him again, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Ever defiantly, his gaze fixed upon the fortified keep before them again. He never did take well to being told what to do, and that obstacle beckoned him with a challenge. “Then go. We will stay and secure more territory.”

The East Field Keep proved to be a challenge, indeed. There was no forcing those doors, they would have had to go around. 

Nigh yanking a field scout off his horse, he hissed an order into the creature’s droopy ears to summon their raid captains there at once. Going up and around was going to require ladders, but with all that rubbish in the way, they’d never even reach the base of the wall. Whatever was hiding behind the barricades would have to be done away with. 

Lizalfos attempting to clamber over the wooden barricades were run through by the soldiers hiding behind them, while those trying to skirt around them met the same fate. It was going to take a lot more heavy-handed work to clear the way, and Ghirahim delightfully volunteered. To serve as a meat-shield was far below him, but little pinpricks bothered him none. So long as he could sprint past just one gap and shake those fools up, their forces would soon follow. 

A rain of splinters left in his wake. He made quick work of the barriers, bursting through them with his fists alone, and ripped whatever unfortunate soul he could get a grip on back through the opening with him. Soldiers bearing their own massive shields followed suit, with his very own Darknuts taking inspiration from his infernal technique. Bounding in rapidly from the North, the first of the raid captains arrived. Oil-drenched torches sailed through the air, setting the barricades aflame, and soon, the field was riddled with charcoal and ash. Their siege towers soon followed, tall, wooden things, sawed like the necks of dragons, and slammed nearly uncontested against the Keep walls. Shrieking and screeching bokoblins clambered their way up, and sowed chaos on their stronghold from above.

Ganondorf did not wait for the path to be fully cleared, and joined in on the carnage with great amusement. Taking advantage of the archers’ panic, he hacked and slashed his way through the remaining eyesores to run right for the looming gate. One sword sheathed at his hip, he balled his fist, his eyes clouding over with something truly malicious. Just a spark of that ancient terror was summoned, then, and for a moment, the tether that bound Ghirahim to his Master tightened, digging into him as if wreathed in thorns. 

With a roar of a battle-cry, he reared back his fist, before his form disappeared behind a swirling black mist. The gargantuan shape of something terrible, an earth-shaking manifestation of Vengeance itself, shrouded the Demon King and braced to attack in the very same way. 

Giant knuckles pounded into the gate like a battering ram. The impact was thunderous, clattering teeth and eardrums for miles to come. Wood charred and smoldered where Ganon’s fist struck it, and though the gate had, by some miracle, not flown open, it’d been knocked nigh entirely off its hinges. Screws and chains kept it standing in a flimsy wobble, like stringy tendons refusing to relinquish a limb. There wasn’t a point in it any longer – the first demonic forces were pouring into the Keep from above, and the gap their King had forced in the doors would fit their footsoldiers just fine.

Just as Ganondorf unleashed his victorious laugh, a series of explosions caught their attention. 

Ghirahim turned to the source of the noise, only to find tall plumes of smoke rising from the Northwest Checkpoint. Pulling his sword from a fallen soldier’s chest, he gestured to the distance. “Master! To the North, Zant has broken through!”

Unsheathing his second sword again, Ganondorf growled. The bulking shadow that loomed over him slowly fizzled away and shrunk down to a mere wisp that slithered down into the folds of his cape. “Then I shall join him. You stay here and retain our frontline.”

Ghirahim nodded and turned. Just as he was searching for an allied banner to join forces with, his attention turned again to his Master who, a few paces further, had turned back around, his gaze fixed on the field across him. 

Courage had been sorely missed on the battlefield up until that point. Now, a shining example of it, with sword drawn and eyes fierce, tore his way through Hyrule Field. Ghirahim scowled at the approaching Reincarnated Hero, but his attention soon split to his Master instead, who stood grinning. He decided to keep any mocking comments about their little foe to himself, for now.

Stepping up to stand beside him, he called to Ganondorf’s attention. “A simple distraction to keep us from moving north, without a doubt.”

“That matters not. I have a score to settle with the boy,” the Gerudo King replied, tusks still bared with his cruel smile. “It seems the Hyruleans seek to entertain me… If they wish to lose their greatest asset so early in the battle, then I will gladly oblige.”

Ghirahim knew better than to disturb an ancient rivalry, for he was there when it first came into being. Still, he gave one uneasy look back at the pillars of smoke. “What of Zant, Master? Shall I join him? Having him lead such a siege on his own would be a death sentence.”

Ganondorf scoffed, giving his concern not a moment’s notice. His sights were set on the Hero, and nothing else. “Is Wizzro not approaching from the south, still? The creature has always been drawn to his dark proclivities. If Zant wishes to be a King in his own right, that much assistance must suffice.”

The King’s dismissal pooled with strange dread in his gut, but Ghirahim banished anything that stood in the way of his loyalty. Sword over his chest, he bowed, baptizing himself again in the cold clarity of servitude. “As you wish, Master. Not a soul will intrude upon your duel, that I promise!”

Fending off anyone that went near, Ghirahim circled the duel in his lethal dance. He was quick, he was efficient – he drowned every instinct to flourish and impress, for if he were to distract his Master from this crucial battle, he’d sooner shatter than forgive himself. With the Keep nearby in shambles, he was almost fighting too leisurely. The battle was under control.

At least, until reinforcements came from the East. Marching through the Keep at the other end of the field, another wave of Hyruleans came their way. Ghirahim hissed, surveyed his surroundings, and came to a painful conclusion. There were by far not enough of their forces here to hold back the oncoming onslaught.

Driving his blade into an approaching knight’s shoulder, a sudden burst of inspiration struck him. He retracted his sword, indulgently lapping off its trail of blood, and shot a playful look at his defeated opponent. Sated by the piercing scowl of fear, Ghirahim pushed him over, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. He knew just how to handle this.

Picking out a target was almost too easy. The Commander at the front of the crowd stuck out like a sore thumb, bearing a gilded shield nearly as tall as himself and a bright plume on his helmet. Kicking up sods of grass, he broke into a sprint to head straight for this flashy figure. With pleasantly surprising dauntlessness, the commander did not flinch. Faced with an ancient demon barreling towards him, all he did was brace his shield and brandish his longsword, ready to strike.

The fool could raise his shield all he liked! All he had to do was make contact! 

Ghirahim raced across the ground with the speed of Zephyr, his every step taunting the man to show him just a shred of fear, but to his maddening delight, he continued to find none. Such men were always his favorite. They could still break.

Mere seconds away from the oncoming battalion now, he used his momentum for three long, bounding steps, before bracing his knees and launching himself forward, arms outstretched. Alarmed cries rang out, but he heard them not much longer. The second his palm laid flat on that opulent shield, diamonds surrounded the pair of battlers, and in that shroud of diamonds, they left the scene. 

With most forces sent out elsewhere on the battlefield, the bridge to the North-East felt like a quiet enough spot to conduct his schemes. Using the commander’s disoriented dazzle to his advantage, Ghirahim swiftly kicked his shield out of his hands, sending it clattering across the stone floor. 

The racket seemed to shock the man back into focus, but before he could ready his stance, the demon was upon him, clutching him by the banner on his chest to yank him at eye level.

“Do you think your Princess cares, Captain?” Ghirahim hissed, pushing the man closer to the rockface wall. “A monarch that wants her people to thrive does not send them to battle unprepared. Here you are, facing against the Demon Lord, wielding an ordinary blade. You think you can hurt me with this?” 

Once again swept away, drunk on his own power, Ghirahim pushed himself away from the man, leaving him dazed. The smell of fear was pungent, ambrosiac in the air, and yet, the soldier gripped his sword tighter. Ghirahim met those burning red eyes with a grin, his arms spread in a mocking invitation. When the man charged for him, he didn’t move a muscle – he did not even flinch, merely stood, daring him to strike. 

And strike he did. A wicked slash of his greatsword, aimed at his chest, poised to kill. In the hands of such a towering man, bearing a sword of this caliber, such a blow would rend flesh down to the bone, hack through, and rend the lungs to shreds. Yet, when the edge of the blade reached Ghirahim, it tore nothing but the fabric of his cloak.

In an instant, Ghirahim was back on him, hands clutching the banner at his chest and driving him against the wall, his knee jammed between his armored legs.

“You see?” he whispered, leaning close to press his forehead against the wretch’s helmet, and peer into the whelk that hid inside. “You are powerless against me. Your precious Zelda has forsaken you.”

His victim shook his shoulders in an attempt to wrestle him off, but all it got him was punishment. Ghirahim slammed him back against the wall, helmet hitting stone with a resounding clunk. Leaning down into the dizzied man’s eye contact, the demon tilted his head. “Does it not anger you? All your years of training. They reflect in your strikes, boy. You are not mere cannon fodder. Thou art a warrior. You have your pride, and here you are, reduced to a meat shield for the inflated ego of a rotting royal family.”

Painted lips curled into a smile, Ghirahim crooned his temptation into the ears of a lost man. “History would find you blameless, were you to channel your rage now…”

His words were a poison, seeping from his flicking tongue to probe at the edges of the defenseless man’s psyche. Mortal minds were simply so fragile, so permeable, needing only the stroke of a pointed nail to tear a hole in its tender fabric. And how easily it tore, how quickly the man once struggling turned to putty in his hands. 

“Your will may have been signed the moment you stepped into this battlefield, but destiny still has its branches for you, Captain. You will not find your greatness with Hyrule, but perhaps, were you to join us against it…”

The hands grasping his cloak weakened, a sword clattered to the ground. Ghirahim chuckled. It wouldn’t be long, now. The veil was torn, the soft gray meat of this flesh-born’s brain practically between his fingertips, its every shock and pulse struggling to get past his dark enchantment. And when the man began to gurgle, that tell-tale death rattle of the mind, Ghirahim keened with glee. Ichor poured from the soldier’s tear ducts, his nostrils, and, were they in view, he’d see it dribbling from his ears, too. 

Ghirahim, too, had a little puppet now. Soon, he’d have many more.

“Pick up your blade and run along, human. We have work to do.”

The man stumbled off, his shambling gait slowly righting itself. It was a dirty little trick, for certain, but one he thought would please his Master dearly. The ichor that dripped from the man was a sign of contagion. The second he was to mingle with his fellow men again, his curse would spread, and tempt every man that joined him in this same betrayal. A vice to most, but to a demon, such pride was a delicacy.

Moments later, Ghirahim perched atop the rock outcropping, overseeing his handiwork. To his glee, it appeared that not only had his little trick indeed turned the reinforcements back where they came from, his Master had enjoyed similar success! His blue scarf tainted red, Hyrule’s Hero turned tail and headed back for the castle, leaving King Dragmire to tear down the crowd in pursuit. 

Such a well-oiled plan almost left him a little bored. Still, such a large group managing to somehow sneak past where Yuga was supposedly stationed, worried him. Leaping down from his vantage point, he flagged down whichever raid captains he could find on the way, and headed for the Keep that bridged Hylia River.

Such a small, thoroughfare keep was apparently a low priority in the Hyrulean defenses. Very few soldiers were stationed here, which took mere minutes to be cleared out, whether fled or felled. Dirty little chores like these were unbecoming of a demon lord, Ghirahim bemoaned to himself, perching himself on of the battlements of newly conquered territory. 

He hardly had time to assess the view beyond the Keep before a shrill voice interrupted him from below.

“Lord Ghirahim,” exclaimed Yuga, hovering down by the bridge. He floated up to him soundlessly and sat on the balustrade beside him. Turning to look up at him, he addressed him pleasantly. “A sight for sore eyes. And how sore they are, indeed! Chaos reigns in the East. They’re killing each other out there!”

Ghirahim looked down at the Sorcerer and found him worse for wear. His banners were rendered to tatters, his armor dented and smudged, not to speak of the sweat and grime that tainted his skin. His mortality reared its ugly head, certainly, in the way he sat there hunched and panting. Nevertheless, it felt like a bad idea to tell him of all people that his appearance was anything less than perfect. A bit of small talk seemed like a much better option. “Oh, so you’ve noticed. Some of my finer work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such mass hysteria was your doing? Why, I’m impressed,” Yuga chimed, looking at the distant crowd with newfound interest. Perhaps his little trick had worked a little too well – it looked like those flies were dropping faster than the contagion could properly spread. Before he could lament this setback any further, Yuga kept him engaged. “I suppose all is well on the central front? Otherwise, I haven’t the faintest idea as to why you’d be busying yourself with my turf.”

Ghirahim laughed, preening his hair. “All is well, indeed. Just before I arrived, I witnessed Master forcing that eyesore of a Hero to go running on back to his little home.”

“Oh, splendid. How I wish I could have seen it,” Yuga languished, resting his chin on his palm with a sigh. “I suppose I should be glad enough for this sorry affair to be over soon. With that worm out of the way, the tides are surely turning in our favor.”

Something about those words jabbed their way into his ire. For a battle that he had yearned for from the moment he’s been summoned, to be dubbed a ‘sorry affair’, picked at the stitches of an old wound the sorcerer inflicted on him. Was this the man his Master favored over him? Perhaps his injuries made Yuga’s whiny side surface, but he hadn’t reconciled with him quite enough yet to give him the benefit of the doubt. Deigning to respond, Ghirahim stood atop the fort looking for a fight to join, but he ended up finding something else.

Hiding in the sun’s glare, a shadow approached and spread its wings. An exasperatingly familiar dragon came into view, the beat of his wings whipping the two men’s luxurious hair in the wind. The membranes of his clawed wings billowed like sails in the catching air, the thin cracks in those black expanses spilling the sun’s radiance between. Volga landed on the bridge with heavy thumps that caused the bridge to whine under his weight. He looked a little more dull than usual – his fiery mane was reduced to a flicker, and his scales lacked their red sheen. 

Volga craned his face up to look at the pair, baring his fangs as he spoke. “The Zora Princess has arrived, riding tides summoned by a noble I do not recognize. They douse my flames too quickly. I alone am no match for them.”

The earlier drab from before faded in an instant, a sparkle igniting in the sorcerer’s eyes where a foggy haze had just been. “Oh, how I’ve longed to meet with that adorable siren princess once more,” Yuga proclaimed, pushing himself off his seat to float gently to the ground. “I shall join you. Gladly!”

Ghirahim raised a brow, his eyes flitting between the two men below. How quickly that prissy figure managed to turn his mood around, all with the promise of a pretty girl! Still, he feared his recklessness, for if there was anything Yuga would risk his hide for, it was the promise of beauty. His eye on the hastily-treated arrow wound on his lower leg, Ghirahim sighed. He could only hope his concern wasn’t taken as an effort of friendly reconciliation.

Quickly masking his uncouth state, Ghirahim hopped from the battlements to stand beside his co-lieutenant and address him with a light scold. “Yuga, you’re injured. I’ll not encourage cowardice in the slightest, but Master will not forgive you if you act rashly.”

“Some nerve you have! You needn’t worry about me, Blade. I’ll see to the eradication of these fools… With the utmost elegance,” he waxed with a voice like a dream, his arms raised in a flourish.

Yet, when Yuga shot forward to head to this promised reunion, his supposed companion did not follow. The sorcerer turned to find Volga hesitating, his head lowered and his scaled back raised. Draconic Warrior Volga was cowering. 

“What ails you, beast?” Yuga questioned, his scowl wrinkling his bloodied brow bone. “One little setback and your claws lose their edge? Join me!”

A growl resonant enough to shake the drawbridge chains vibrated the wood beneath their feet. Volga slinked away, spines bristling and mane sputtering with flame, and hissed as he spoke. “The Demon King cares not! He sends us to our deaths,” he spat. “I will no longer fight as a pawn in his name.”

Ghirahim’s fangs bared involuntarily. Such insolence was unacceptable. Maddening! His fingers curled fiercely around the grip of his sword, and his gaze zoned in on a vague, pink mark behind the dragon’s shoulder, left there once by his Master’s trident. But before he could drive himself into the tender flesh of Volga’s weak spot, Yuga gripped him by the horns and shook him, forcing their eyes to lock.

“Know your place, cave-dwelling reptile!” Shouted Yuga, face contorted into a snarl. “You dare let your loyalty stray now? You turn against our Master, in his greatest hour?”

Volga struggled against him, bearing a strong endeavor to win, but the handle those twiggy arms had on him was unfathomably relentless. Any attempt to shake him off seemed futile – Volga’s muscular neck writhed, its tension tightening his body enough to flare out his plating. Veins bulged on the Lorian’s temples as his rage built. It was fire against fire, bull against fighter. Their scuffle lit a new spark in Volga’s sputtering flames, but before he could use it against his captor, the back of Yuga’s boot slammed his glowing maw back shut. 

That treacherous attack only served to make Yuga angrier. He now fully yanked at his horns, dragging him with him to solid ground. Even after all this berating, Volga still refused, digging his claws into the soil. Yuga looked down at the grooves in the ground and cried out in disgust. “Sickening! Pathetic! Shame upon you, for daring to call yourself a dragon! Have some sense! It seems I must knock it into you.”

Steeling his grip, Yuga lifted himself higher in the air, dragging the dragon’s head with him. His arms raised, his eyes spat fire, hovering fearlessly before the snarling maw mere inches from his feet. With one shrill cry of exertion, he swung his arms downward and threw the Dragon to the ground. 

Volga hit the ground chin-first, hissing in pain and rage as the ground cracked beneath his plating. Before he could gather his bearings, Yuga bore on him again, his uninjured foot stomping down on his snout. “You wish to be respected? You want to be treated as more than a pawn, as you say? Then show us! Show yourself as more worthy than the beating I will unleash upon you, should you refuse!”

For his last sneer, Yuga leaned in close, hissing his venom through clenched teeth. “Now you cough up whatever sickly bile allows you to spray your flame, Lieutenant, and you better do it soon, before I reduce that bulky form of yours to oil pastels!”

At the threat of his staff, Volga bounded away, his tail lashing with a vicious temper. He gave the pair one more skeptical look, before chuffing out an agonized, wretched burst of flame, and turning back to the distant battle. Taking off into a gallop, he climbed the air with beating wings, and announced his return to the masses below with a guttural roar.

Left behind, the Sword Spirit looked up at the wild beast’s ascent with an air of calm, while Yuga stood panting next to him, his flushed face slowly returning to its usual corpsely gray. Such a performance deserved a bit of accolade. 

“My. I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ghirahim said, bringing a hand to his face in idle amusement.

Yuga paused, swallowing to gather his breath, before chuckling in response. “Spare me the cajolery, Ghirahim. I have a royal visitation to attend.”

Just like that, the Sorcerer lifted himself off the floor once more with a wave of his staff, and along with the breeze, he was off.

This side of the battlefield now thoroughly occupied, Ghirahim skirted along its edges, the rush of the river below carrying him on its roaring winds. As Volga relayed to them, the Zora were advancing rapidly from here, but on his own, he wasn’t keen on drawing their attention. As tempting as the thought of sticking it to the Lorian was by stealing his kills, the Zora often bore enchanted weapons. The Demon Lord wouldn’t risk his pristine state for mere petty gestures!

Racing down the path to the south, Ghirahim had the quiet hope of running into his Master. Something akin to worry tugged at his strings when he saw the gates to Hyrule Castle nearly untouched. A mass of soldiers kept any invading forces at bay – which meant that Ganondorf was being held up by the bridge, for whatever reason. He had to cut through the crowd somehow. 

A remedy (or, a minor poultice at most), to his predicament, appeared in the shape of raid squads by the crags, who stood gathered around a cavalier scout relaying her rapport. 

Desperate for any news at all about the sudden delay of the advance, Ghirahim hurried on over, urging the scout to tell her tale.

The Gerudo woman tightened the reins on her antsy steed and addressed him with a bow of her head. “There was an ambush from the Eastern Central Keep, My Lord. King Dragmire was impeded, and now, Commander Link has fled to the Castle. We are sending reserve troops to clear the path.”

Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed. The disgust in the air around him was palpable, enough to further panic the scout’s horse. “Then I shall go with you.”

The cavalry was fast but not much faster than he. The gaps in the crowd the scout cleared for herself closed up quickly before him, and with every soldier he cut down, his disdain grew. So soft. So weak. What tricks could these ants possibly have gotten up their sleeves to give his Master this much trouble?

With every pace, the mass of soldiers grew ever-denser. The red plume of hair that was once his guide was soon no longer dependable. Overwhelmed by their adversaries, the Gerudo’s horse let out a hellish shriek when run through by steel, and soon, slumped to the ground, its rider perishing with it. 

Yet, he no longer needed her. The bridge was in view, and soon he would reunite to assist his Ruler, his Master, his –

Cyan, bluer than blue, sped back down the bridge like an arrow. Towering stature, white hair, and red eyes that left glowing streaks as she moved. Ghirahim knew now what had delayed them so. To think a General as renowned as her would retreat so soon, hardly even injured! 

Just as he intended to ignore this display of cowardice and let her run her merry way, a sudden force yanked his head to keep his eyes on her.

“She aims for the Temple,” hissed a sudden voice in his mind. “Should the Hyruleans get the Great Fairy’s assistance, we will surely regret it!”

“Zant!” Ghirahim whispered in retort, “you have the nerve to get into my head?”

“Do not distract yourself with technicalities,” Zant growled. “Go!” 

Biting back his ire, Ghirahim hissed through his teeth. How could he allow for such a vulnerability in his own mind? Had a tether been planted there, without him noticing? If so, then when?

All such questions had to wait for later. A blade like him would only take commands from his master, but he took the liberty of taking Zant’s words as a friendly suggestion. He had been waiting for a proper face-off with the Sheikah general, to test if this one was a more exciting opponent than the previous. His feet took off below him without a second thought.

The thrill of slaughtering hundreds was fair enough a way to sate him, indeed. But nothing fulfilled him, nothing made him feel like he was truly fighting, like an impassioned one-on-one with a worthy warrior who wanted him dead for more reasons than simple victory.

Tracking the scent of her blood alone, Ghirahim burst after her with speed that would strike envy in a lightning bolt. Though the prospect of giving chase for the sport of it was plenty attractive, he knew better than to let his amusement get ahead of him. No, for now, he merely wanted to get a better look at the Temple and see where he could best ambush her. He could afford no distractions, so his path had to be clear. Yanking the raid captains he’d run into earlier with him, he set forth to the temple stairs, and waited for the right moment to rear its head.

Ever-so-politely, the Commander did not keep him waiting long. Ghirahim lavishly draped himself atop one of the few pillars still standing above the Temple’s crumbling staircase, strewn as it was with holes from beast claws and long-gone explosives. Somehow, this barren place still held onto its sanctity. He wondered how much further they would have to ruin it for that persistent, divine itch to stop. 

That idle thought could only ever be that, though. His target burst from the crowd, and in her near-blinded fury, almost completely overlooked his presence. Carelessness was one thing, but plain rude was another! With a scoff, Ghirahim jumped down from his perch and landed himself square in her path. In an instant, she staggered back and drew her blade.

“Again you cross my path, Impa, and how your numbers have dwindled. You were a mighty people once, a veritable threat,” Ghirahim purred, circling the commander. This alone stopped her advance and drew her weapon, for she was healthily wary of turning her back to him. “And now, you can hardly even be called a tribe. Once you served the Goddess, now merely Her diluted blood, who with each thinning drop tore down your numbers, your dignity… Are you truly content with this?”

If she was ever at the edge of being compelled, Ghirahim certainly didn’t notice it. Impa thrust her greatsword toward him just as he took a step closer. “When the lands we stand on were still called the Surface, there was your kin, mercilessly slaughtering mine. You dare speak of our tribe in solidarity now? Spare me your poisoned words, Demon. I will not be manipulated by the likes of you!”

“Oh, well,” Ghirahim cackled, ducking from the second strike from her blade with his hands childishly clasped behind his back. “It was worth a try, I suppose.”

The giant slab of steel came for him again, slamming into the ground where he once stood with her full weight behind it. Yet the Sheikah was nimble, and thus, frightfully strong, in how she twirled and slid around him and dragged the heaving weapon along with her. He had to take his every step with extreme care.

Her attacks did not go uncontested. Ghirahim drew his sword in retaliation and threw himself upon her in a flurry of blows. There was something familiar about the way she fought – reminiscent of the so-called Hero, perhaps. But in those brazen arms hid decades of discipline and ferocity. What she lacked in holy power, Impa made up for with expert technique. 

In other words, he was in for an incredibly enjoyable battle. 

Though his sword was smaller, more nimble than hers, she managed to deflect nigh every strike and dodge away from others. He was certain he at least nicked her fingers once or twice, but either she simply didn’t care, or some form of enchantment had been cast on her.

This suspicion was confirmed when, with a sudden wince in her expression, she left herself wide open for just a split second, and he thrust for her chest. Though her armor here was bare, the tip of his sword still bounced clean off, a golden flicker rippling where he’d struck. Had Hyrule’s Princess so graciously cast the same protection over a mere servant, that she’d bestowed upon her divine Hero? How delightfully sentimental.

It did not matter. A barrier simply meant he had to hit harder, as he did last time. Lacking the privileges of Zant’s magic from his previous attempt, he just had to make do with his own. With her next strike, he jumped back far further than he needed to and deftly escaped her range. He had to be quick, but the slight limp in the Sheikah’s step assured him he’d have just enough time for his little party trick, if not with ten milliseconds to spare. With no further hesitation, he held his rapier out before him, and with a flick of his wrist, twisted it in his grip, and buried it into his own chest with a decisive thrust.

Shock. He just won another second!

His core ran hot. Burning, searing metal to its melting point, enough to pulse an aura of sickly purple from his chest to his entire body. Grass was charred beneath his feet as the heat coursed through his every inch, but by far stronger was the sheer darkness. Whatever life once carried in the ashes below was promptly snuffed, its soil scorched and poisoned. He gritted his teeth, not in pain but in exertion, as the searing flame in his chest grew ever brighter. His magic was doing its work; his will was next. For every blade forged needed a purpose, a name. And what was this one? Once, it was to be his simple favorite, light and easy to wield. But over the years he had accumulated many more just like it, and its value had diminished to that of mere nostalgia. Such a loyal friend needed something more potent.

What did he want for it? It needed to strike true, to be wicked in every edge yet sharp enough to cut through mountains unharmed. It had not to be graceful, but to simply bring death. 

And when he pulled it from him, glowing bright red from the hellfire he’d retrieved it from, it became a jagged thing. The picture of a grimace, of metal that in itself bore rage and scowled at its foe.

Yes. I shall call you Annihilation.

Impa closed in on him bearing her scabbard as a shield. Her feet ground tracks into the soil as she slid at him with enough speed to knock him off his feet. And it would have, had he not braced himself the last second, meeting the firm wood of the scabbard with a ram of his elbow, cracking its polished blue surface. The impact loosened the greatsword in its hold and she took full advantage of this. Impa kicked the scabbard fiercely, sending it swiveling around to sit at her back, and unsheathed her blade in its momentum, seeking to cut him down in one broad sweep. 

This was his new pet’s time to shine. Instead of the traditional parry, he swung the cursing black blade downward. Sharp edges stuck together until the sharpness of his own prevailed and slid down, dragging an ear-grating screech out of the Sheikah greatsword. A strike so wretched it taught steel to feel pain! Ghirahim chuckled as the two swords buried their tips in the dirt between them, but was smart enough not to linger long. 

Before her heart could finish another beat, Impa swung her blade back up, sharp edge upturned. Glittering specks of hair scattered in the wind as Impa cleaved through the tips of his bangs. In an instant, his vision went red, a crimson hue that pooled from the General’s eyes and washed over all of his vision. Such rage emboldened him as much as it weakened him, for the second he spent gritting his teeth and indulgently spying for a weak spot to torture, Impa punished him. 

Blade outstretched, she dove beneath his arms and swung. A deep line carved into his gut, carving through his false skin and splintering a groove in his surface. 

They were petty injuries to his body and standing, but enough to send him into rage. One hand fiercely gripping her shoulder, he pushed himself forward, driving his knee into her gut. Impa staggered back with a groan, shaken but unharmed, and kept herself standing with her sword as a crutch. With this new distance wedged between them, he once more pulled his cleaver and lunged for her.

She parried him once, twice, that massive eyesore of a blade serving far too well as a shield until it didn’t, and he struck the gap between her arms and armor. 

Annihilation slipped through, obsidian steel hungering for bloodshed, and tore a gaping hole into the magic that protected her. A fountain of golden sparks followed her in an arc as Impa fell to the ground. She hit the floor with a heavy thud, her scabbard cracking further beneath her bulk. 

Ghirahim hopped back with whimsy, tongue darting between his lips and sword at the ready, as she jumped back upright with a swing of her legs. Even without her divine protection, she seemed just as hellbent on striking him down. But no matter. His next strike would not miss.

For just a second, her scarlet eyes parted from their contesting gazes and flitted to the Temple behind her. Impa’s feet braced in the soil, her knees bent, and she shot for her goal. 

Ghirahim didn’t let her set more than even a step. Those signs of her escape were subtle, and anyone even a smidge less analytical than he would have missed them. But Ghirahim drove a dagger into her hip before she could even think of which foot to put where, and nearly sent her tumbling.

Yet Impa kept going, shielding herself with her scabbard as she advanced further up the temple stairs walking backward. If she thought getting the high ground would put her at an advantage, she was dead wrong! Ghirahim hurried after her in pursuit, lunging for her legs as swift and deadly as a viper. Her balance was wobblier now that she’d been injured, but her fury had not depleted even in the slightest bit. He saw it clear as day in her eyes – either she would get to that Temple, or she would die trying. If only all Hyruleans saw the beauty of such dedication. Perhaps, then, some of these battles wouldn’t have been so dull!

To Ghirahim, it was a test of mettle, or rather, the indulgent act of poking a sleeping bear with a stick, while Impa treated his ceaseless meddling as the annoyance that it was. Hoping to finally throw him off her trail, she swung down, the embers in her eyes bursting into wildfires.

Ghirahim raised his blade in defense, edge catching on edge once more.

With a single flick of his wrist, the greatsword slotted into the jagged shapes of his masterpiece and became trapped there. This blade was not a mere extension of his body – it was him, a piece of his very soul, granted physical form. It held onto Impa’s weapon without as much as a shiver, clasped with the same deft ease as he would have pinched it between his fingers. Their eyes locked, dog meeting wolf dangerously outmatched, and Ghirahim flashed a smile.

The muscles of his arms tensed. Impa couldn’t escape, so instead she attempted to push through. Out of pure curiosity, he let her try. He gazed up into the blade, and oh, how beautifully polished, clean of any grime or corruption. Their eyes stayed locked until he met his own in the sword’s reflection, and his lips curled into a grin. He was immaculate still, the assault on his haircut aside, while she stood panting, scowling, and shaking above him, her teeth grinding audibly with every bit of force she pushed into the blade. Falling apart like this was a shame of such a good swordswoman. He wouldn’t bear to look at it, if he didn’t delight so much in being the cause.

So, he put an end to it. With his only warning being a yell of exertion, he used her strength against her, and with a swing ripped the blade clean out of her hands. The greatsword careened down the stairs, cracking the stone bricks beneath it in its rancorous descent. Before she could think to dive after it, Ghirahim reared back again, and hacked her clean in the shoulder.

Impa fell to her knees with a guttural cry, for a moment, finally looking defeated. She glared daggers at him when his heel planted in her chest. With the cadence of a butcher missing the right tendon, he ripped his sword back out, beholding the blood seeping down its sawtooth edge. What a beautiful, loyal thing, yet one even he hesitated to lap clean after witnessing the damage it did. 

In his distraction, the General made her escape, staggering further up the stairs. They were both thinking the same thing: could she make it to the temple, before the gnarly wound on her shoulder sapped her off her strength, and sent her to Death’s door? Her arm dangling uselessly at her side, and her blade buried far beyond where she could escape from him to retrieve it, Impa shot him a foul look. 

His confidence was getting ahead of him! From her upturned palm, a bright blue light surged, its specks of luster dazzling him before they struck him like a thousand darts. Yet this magic did not pierce, it did not scratch. Rather, it stuck to him in droplets, merging in ever greater globs in less than a second. His vision blurred, his hearing grew distorted and whined, and before he knew it, his head was encased in a churning sphere of water. 

The thought that she attempted to drown him amused him. An airless laugh bubbled forth from his lips and echoed through his abyssal scold’s bridle in crystalline chimes. But this amusement did not last long. A kick to his chest sent him tumbling to the ground, and icy daggers pinned his cloak to the ground in an attempt to keep him down. Distraction, after distraction, after distraction, all in the feeble hope to cross that field and plead the Fairy Queen for her aid. 

The poor thing hadn’t the slightest clue he didn’t need to see her to strike her. The dagger in her hip betraying her location, he raised his hand, fingers tense, like drawing taut the string of a bow. A snap. Cold steel flew, whistling through the air as it followed the trail to its brethren, and struck flesh. 

Impa cried out, stumbled, and at last, fell forward onto the steps. 

Ghirahim strutted on over, sword at rest but not yet sheathed, to stand over his once-opponent. A little river of crimson poured free from her, dripping down the stairs and staining its pure white marble in the stench of near death. Yet, listening carefully, it appeared she still breathed. 

He nudged her carelessly with his foot. “Lady Impa, I must say, I’m impressed. You and I make for such an excellent pair of duelists when you don’t insist on making every turn of my life into complete misery.”

With her last shreds of wakefulness, Impa turned to gaze at him. Her complexion withered, but her eyes had not yet glazed over. She was angrier than he’d ever seen her. “You… Vile…” She hissed through blood-stained teeth. “Wretched thing, a traitor, a dishonor to the world, for your own selfish needs, you…” 

The corner of his lip twitched in annoyance at this name-calling. Ever the high-and-mighty, righteous woman, perhaps even more of a bore than her predecessor. He was almost glad that the blood loss seemed to be taking her ability to speak from her, but then a sudden pulse of energy alerted him that some other force was at play. 

Golden specks of light rose from the General. She, too, took notice of them, a sparkle of bitter hope lit in her expression. A weak laugh was all he heard from her, until the light flooded her body, and she was gone.

With the Sheikah Chief defeated, Hyrule’s army devolved into further chaos. If they had been betting on reaching that Fairy to ensure their victory, then the sudden outpour of soldiers could only have been their last-ditch effort. Ghirahim rose, his cape tearing to tatters under the daggers as he shed it. Standing atop the temple stairs, he ran a hand through his hair, shedding the water from his vision to survey the battlefield.

It was a deluge of blue and silver. Were they winning before, then the Hyrulean swarm that broke out from the now-opened gate to Castle intended to change that. All matters of banners, people from every corner of the country, dashed forth from the palace and the foothills. 

The princess was nowhere to be seen. Unmistakable to his analytical eye, however, a corridor, narrow as it was, cleaved through the masses. A certain someone else was making his way through the field again. Mounted on horseback, Link, his palm ablaze with golden light, shot through the field like an arrow.

Zant, Yuga, Wizzro, Volga, his Master, anyone, they were nowhere to be seen. As far as Ghirahim was aware, there was nobody else to stop the Knight that galloped straight for their base. Somewhere, a hunger for that old dynamic between hero and thrall awakened in him again, turning from an urge to a fiery prey drive within a split second. He was no stranger to chasing around little blond holy men. By all means, this was his calling. 

And so, shattering the stone steps beneath his heels, Ghirahim bounded down the Temple stairs and threw himself into the mass of soldiers at the foot of the hill. 

Yet, he could find no opening. The crowd was forcing him back out every step of the way, as if they could sense the string that tied him to the boy, and feared what would come of it, were the two ends of it to meet. 

It was thoroughly amusing. No matter how sheer the numbers, these forces could only ever slow him, not stop him. Though even distraction would prove to be dire, the further those hoofbeats strayed from him. He had to be in pursuit and had to do it fast, but the dense formation barring his way left not a single opening. Such an advantage would have to be gained the old-fashioned way.

Shields raised before him as soldiers pointed their spears at him, rancorously barking commands for him to keep his distance, or to surrender, or to keel over and die already, and other such nonsense. It was starting to get annoying, really. Again, the gleaming metal pointed at him was of a mundane sort. He peered down at the spearheads in disdain. The jumble of sticks and steel wobbled, pointed insistently at him, and swayed all too tantalizingly.

Before the oafs had a sliver of an idea, he swiped a handful of them into his hand, crushing the bouquet to splinters in an instant. Taking advantage of the knuckle guard on his rapier, he twirled the blade around his hand and changed his grip to that of a cutthroat. He was upon them in a flash, breaking through the first line of shields with a single kick, and carved through armor and flesh alike with the full weight of his momentum behind him. 

But the cavity he’d cut into the formation would only hold so long. Hundreds of the shouting sacks of skin seemed hellbent on stopping him all at once, hounding him with everything they had. Shields bashed into him, swords and spears clattered and bounced off his skin but tore his clothing to tatters. It wasn’t long before their desperation made them forfeit their weaponry altogether, settling for trying to kick him over, or yanking at his arms, if only to stall his advance for another second. Eyes darting dangerously, he cut down whoever he could focus on long enough to kill. 

Ghirahim trudged on, heaving, stained in blood, mud, and whatever else. It was slow, it was humiliating, but it was progress, and he could bear this nigh endless assault, if only for the carnal, berserker’s satisfaction the blood on his blades brought him. 

At least, until he heard something unmistakable. One of these dogs had the gall to laugh. 

There stood Ghirahim, his beloved cloak tattered, trampled and abandoned, his clothing hanging from him in ribbons, his skin cracked with glittering black and his hair tousled from far too many gloves yanking at it. They didn’t simply want to impede him, they fully intended to humiliate him.

Enough!

He wasn’t sure if he simply thought it, or shouted it to the heavens, but within an instant, his brute endurance changed to a rush of bloodlust. With a cry, he raised his arms and summoned a glittering red, impenetrable barrier.

The small crowd bunched in there with him seemed to realize that it was merely their own numbers they could trust awfully quick. 

Ghirahim greeted the dawning fear that would soon suffocate his playpen with a cheek-splitting grin, baring every pearly white tooth he had.

Where the density of the crowd was once their greatest strength, it was now the soldiers’ downfall. There simply wasn’t enough space for any of them to join in proper formation, much less extend their sword. It was by design, of course. Ghirahim burst out in laughter, as gleeful as he was sadistic, as he began to tear away at the soldiers around him. Oh, how quickly they donned that veil of valiance again, so desperate to fall in honor after throwing themselves at him like animals! They certainly weren’t holding their fairest warriors as reserves. Even the blood tasted vile on these ones. The crowd thinned rapidly with the fury of his blade, which, to his amusement, made enough space for some of these fools to try and fight him again. It turned to a delightful routine – parry, perhaps a second clash of swords, then a jab at the shoulder, and a stab to the gut. Around them, the barrier had turned from red and gold to a flat crimson, obscuring his private arena from the outside world in a curtain of blood. And what a carnage it had been! Only five of them were left – ah, forgive his enthusiasm. Four, now – Three, tearing limbs out their sockets, crunching their jaws under his fists – two –

And then there were none. 

Ghirahim stood upright, surveying his handiwork with renewed clarity. Cloth, skin, chainmail, plating, and shields alike accumulated on the floor in a scrapyard amalgam, groaning wetly under the force of his footsteps. A rhythmic pounding of pommels against his barrier thrilled like a landslide in the air, but he was confident the masses would not break through. He stroked a hand through his hair, only to notice black talons peeking through his gloves, and begrudgingly smiled. 

His power was getting away from him again. Looking around the death gathered at his feet, he knew just the way to righten this new burst of energy. Unencumbered by his now-deceased assailants, he stretched himself with a laugh, cracking his shoulders to spread his hands to either side. Dancing forward across the heap of bodies he’s left, he swayed his arms in fluid motions, like plucking the strings to a harp. With each twitch of his fingers, he felt the power surge from the fading life beneath his feet, up his legs, and to his core – an eerie feeling, yet unrivaled in its profoundness, that chilled as much as it burned. 

With two snaps of his fingers, spectral servants surrounded him. He’d wasted enough time; he had to catch up with that boy, and fast. Of all the strings that tugged on him, the one tied to the Hero’s Incarnation pulled the hardest. His barrier now dismissed, he sent the specters forward to clear his path, only to find the battlefield had changed in his absence. Drawn to the scent of blood, he’d imagine, Bokoblins had poured into the cracks of the Hyruleans’ defenses to draw ever nearer to the palace. Finally, some more backup than the measly groups he’d summoned! 

He ran, he cut down anyone in his way, and he swerved through any opening he could. His feet pounded across the bridge, wind soaring in his ears. Moreso with kicks and elbows than with his swords, he broke past groups of soldiers, only to find an iconic presence tower above it all, glaring at the setting sun.

“Master,” Ghirahim cried out, and launched himself to his side to run beside him.

Ganondorf looked down at him over his shoulder. Past the blood and grime that others had splattered on him, he was as immaculate as he’d been when he first arrived. “The boy fled before I could engage. The Hyruleans are planning something, and I have no intention to-”

Golden beams of light had the audacity to interrupt his magnificent words and rip their attention to the north. 

“The bridge keep… They have it out for our bases,” Ganondorf growled, stroking a hand across his black steel blade to charge it with wicked thunder. “Keep me no longer, Sword. I must be swift.”

Were it any other time, burdened as he was with the despair of judgment and abandonment of his Master, Ghirahim would have hung his head and accepted his departure. But this grave turn in destiny, where finally, the Demon King would get his hands on the Triforce, invigorated him to boldness never seen before. He lunged for the departing Gerudo and clutched his arm. 

“If he’s going for our bases, Master, there is but one place he can go. I’ll take us there,” he shouted over the noise of battle, never shying from his gaze, even as he scowled at his sudden forwardness.

Yet Ganondorf’s expression softened, if one could ever call such a vicious grin ‘soft’. To Ghirahim, it was the most reassuring sight he could see.

Ganondorf turned to face the golden light once more, and spoke with narrowly restrained eagerness. “Then get on with it.”

Ghirahim gripped his arm with more vigor than he’d ever held anything. Diamond magic gathered at their feet, enveloping the both of them in a maelstrom that rippled the grass and billowed fabric in its intensity. Enveloping the Demon King in his own power sent his core into overdrive. Steam burst from his gritted teeth with a single pant, the sheer exertion threatening to melt him down. The golden light inside that man was simply so grand, so all-encompassing, that to wrap around it with the fickle fibers of his own seemed insurmountable. Yet he, the Demon King’s blade, his servant not only by design but by fierce desire, would not falter. 

When they tore through the fabric of reality and landed at the foot of their base, the sheer vertigo of the transportation was enough to bring Ghirahim to his knees. He clutched the pommel of his Master’s sword, panting, and craned his head to look up at him. Ganondorf looked down at him past his pauldron and nodded at him, a smirk pulling at his features. He’d intrigued him – perhaps even impressed him! 

Invigorated by the urge to have those eyes on him again, he wobbled back on his feet, as if born again, to trail after the Demon King as he marched onward.

Ganondorf turned his attention to a second rain of light pelting from the sky, steeling his grip on his crackling blades. “Hyrule’s Hero intends to drive us out of their turf. How fortunate that we can meet him halfway.”

This corner of the battlefield was still under their command, but their influence was slipping. Anything past Hylia River seemed to have been reclaimed by blue and silver, and their sickening radiance grew ever closer. It was a battle of endurance now, where the Demon forces had to resist being driven back, lest their goal slip through their fingers. 

It was dire, yet it was not. Were he among Volga and Yuga, whose fire and thunder lit up the skies behind him, he might have despaired. Were he still trapped in that humiliating clash he’d ripped free from, he might have faltered. But sheltering the mighty back of his Master, whose shoulders squared exuding nothing but power and confidence, he knew victory was mere inches away. 

That inch was announced with the skidding of hooves and the blowing and snorting of a startled equine. Link forced his horse to a halt, blue eyes shooting a piercing gaze at the two of them as they caught him off guard. 

“Oh, come now,” Ghirahim chimed, collecting himself with a whip of his hair. “Don’t be shy! You’ve come this far, surely you didn’t think we’d let you claim our territory unchallenged?”

Ghirahim laughed, his arms outstretched in invitation as he waltzed his way over to the knight. The young man was worse for wear – his green garb was dirtied from his earlier battle, and though he’d been run through the infirmary, his heaving stance betrayed painful injuries. Yet, that furious, noble glare was unmistakable. He’d dragged himself here with willpower alone, and that very force would carry him ‘till his heart gave out.

Which, frankly, sounded like a fun little exercise.

Another smoky laugh escaped him when Link spurred his horse again, setting out for him with full intent to smack his head clean off his shoulders. Ghirahim looked back, inviting his Master to mock their adversary, and found him permitting his whims with a squint of his eyes. 

Just before the advancing horseman could strike him, he disappeared with a flash and zipped back into view a ways behind. The horse bucked and staggered, aggravated not only by startle but the instinctual ferocity of demonic presence. 

Ghirahim watched on in amusement as Link struggled to pacify his mount, finding it the perfect moment to prod at him some more. “Quit bullying that poor animal and face us properly, boy! You’re not slipping past us again!”

Eyes flitting between his two foes, Link grew antsy atop his panicked steed. He dismounted her with a sweep of his leg, setting her to run free, and once again brandished his sword. Both feet now firmly on the ground, his earlier discombobulation was nowhere to be seen. When Ghirahim prowled toward him, tongue darting between his lips, Link scowled at him with nothing but a righteous sense of duty.

How annoying!

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf warned him. “Step aside.”

Snapped out of his bloodlust, the sword spirit straightened himself, his free hand before his chest. “As you wish, Master,” he stated, retreating with a bow to let Ganondorf take his place. “Same arrangement as before?”

The Demon King shook the sparks on his swords awake. “Let not a soul through.”

“As you wish.”

And so, Ghirahim braced himself again, darting forth to clear the King a proper arena. Those with seconds to spare would soon be dragged on the periphery with him, riddling the edges with hulking monsters. Two separate worlds were unfolding on this battlefield, that of the raging war of the masses, and the private duel guarded so tightly at its borders. In the natural order of things, those spheres would never have met, not until one of them ended, but a twist of fate broke their edge.

Just behind him, Ghirahim noticed a Dinolfos seize one of the Hyrulean captains in its gauntlet and lift them off the ground, inspecting them with nostrils twitching and teeth bared. With a furious hiss, it tossed the soldier to the ground, sending them skidding into private grounds.

Ghirahim would have torn the wretch apart for disturbing their King’s space, did he not notice just who was thrown to his Master’s attention. With scarlet hair, golden armor, and richly patterned clothing, the identity of this soldier was clear. Even more damning was the blue-and-silver banner hung from her waist.

The distraction allowed Link an opening. Ganondorf grunted as a gash was hacked into his thigh, but his first wound only served to invigorate him. “What is the meaning of this?” He snarled, tusks bared. The strikes he delivered upon Link’s shield caused the boy to buckle through his knees, and be thrown to the ground with the next. “You dare poison my own people against me? To think Hyrule calls me wicked. You would have Sisters slay each other.”

Link and his fairy stayed silent. He threw himself back on his feet and lunged for the Demon King once more.

If the battlefield was in dissonance, then the fatal clash behind him was a symphony. There was no desperation in it – the drive to see each other dead was pure and true, and Ghirahim would give his life to protect it. The bodies he left in his wake were his offerings, gifts for his Master, to keep that music safe and undisturbed. 

Yet, even with this passion, in his strife to keep the raid squads at bay, an ominous glow in the skies distracted him. At once, the familiar comfort of servitude was shattered. Ghirahim kicked the burly Hylian before him to the ground and skewered him in place, if only to allow himself a few seconds unimpeded to keep an eye on that strange sight. The glow was met by a smoldering darkness from below, that formed a murky yellow globe just beyond the fortifications in the East. From that same faux-sunspot, light rained down from the sky, pelting down on the barrier in ground-shaking ferocity. But this attack was different; rather than the golden rays invoked by the descendant Hero, this one was a pure, blinding white, taking the shape of thousands of arrows. Zant had anticipated it! How nostalgic it must have been, for light and darkness to clash once more! 

Then, the unthinkable happened. Not in that it was impossible – really, it was the only logical outcome – but in that he’d never want to imagine it. The Twilit barrier shattered to bits.

Ghirahim froze in place, eyes glued to the shining barrage from the heavens.

Even through the ringing in his ears, Ganondorf’s voice rang through clear as glass. “Princess Zelda is growing desperate. If she’s felled Zant, she will make her way here shortly.” 

Felled?

“Do not let her reunite with her Knight, Blade!”

His feet moved on their own. Were there any soldiers impeding his way, he must have taken them out in sheer automation, for he didn’t notice them. All he had eyes for was the deluge of radiant arrows that turned the condense in the dark clouds above into a glittering expanse of stars. The heavens rejoiced and cheered for their princess as she took away what mattered to him so.

Ghirahim ran, too numbed by shock and steered by command only. What would he do, were he to round that corner and find her there? If he found something else he wouldn’t want to see? Would he be able to look away long enough to take her down? 

The swarm of Hyruleans thickened around him as their demonic forces dwindled. Their keeps were being cleared out and invaded swiftly, leaving their most competent generals struggling to retain their ground. Yet, every one of them that saw his advance, rallied to clear his path. They could not win this war with numbers alone – everything rested on defeating the bearers of the Triforce.

The northern gates were in sight now, their doors blown to scrap and splinters, and the surrounding ground scarred with blight. He sprinted through them, rattling the bridge’s chains with his pounding footfall as he rushed to get to this final stand, only to skid to a halt.

In the distance, he saw a clash between beast and man still unfolding, as if the world had not ended here moments before. Approaching in eerie silence was an armored Bullbo, growling in strain against the many arrows that pierced its hide, but more notably, carrying an unbelievable shape on its back.

Zant slowed his steed with a pull on its reins and sidled up next to Ghirahim. Now witnessing him from the side, a second passenger came into view. A bloodied bronze gauntlet on thin, serene arms, and a curtain of vibrant, straw-blonde hair, draped past The Twilight King’s lap. 

Retracting the visor of his helmet, Zant bared his smile. “Hail, Ghirahim-ili. I see you have stopped General Impa, as I advised. Well done,” he said, looking to the skies to find golden light still raining there. “What of the boy, Link?”

“... I… He’s… Master is, ah…” Ghirahim stammered, his throat suddenly feeling too tight to speak. “Link is weakened, and we stopped his advance. Master… Will prevail. Zant, how-”

“Excellent,” Zant interjected sharply. “Our victory is at hand, Ghirahim, but I am too weakened to escort the Princess on my own. Wizzro can only keep the forces behind me at bay for so long, thus, I must make haste,” Zant seemed to soliloquy for a moment, before looking down upon him from his mount again, grinning his teeth bare. “Will you join me for this grand finale?”

Ghirahim was too paralyzed to refuse or accept. Zant took his silence as confirmation anyway. He took off in a gallop. Feeling the strain at his collar, Ghirahim followed.

Hyrule field was in a greater state of chaos than Ghirahim had left it mere moments before. Enervated by the battle, the remaining demonic forces grew ever fiercer. Were it not for the bounty they carried with them, the sides would have seemed equally matched. Ghirahim wordlessly fluttered around Zant like a moth contemplating the light of a lantern, striking down anyone that came close. And those numbers gained, indeed, as they drew ever deeper into the conflict. Zant had drawn his blade, but from atop his porcine steed could only do so much. 

The sight of the Princess splaying across the saddle eased their burden as much as it increased it. Hyrulean soldiers grew panicked and enraged, bearing down on them in droves, while their monstrous captains saw it as their cue to join their entourage. 

As the eye of the storm formed around them, Zant addressed him. “You saw it. That golden light, decimating all in its wake. A magnificent power, isn’t it, Ghirahim?”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied. And you defeated her, he thought to himself. Against all logic, Zant came out victorious. At this point, asking him ‘how’ would only have resulted in a lackluster answer. Nor would knowing just ‘who’ this figure was sate him. The desire for questions was beginning to wane. 

Ghirahim knew power when he saw it.

Zant chuckled behind his helmet. Tiring of this pace, he sent his mount into a gallop, and forced his way into the crowd. The Bullbo shrieked, tossed its head, and sent men tumbling, and grew ever-fiercer as more and more blades drove into it. With a sweep of his adamantine sword, Zant poked holes into the line of Hyruleans for their own troops to flood into. 

He shrieked with laughter, yet held the princess fast to his saddle with care, as he turned his steed to face his co-lieutenant with masked glee. “All of it will be ours, very soon. Hold fast, Yima gradiegra. Master awaits.”

His Dagger. 

Yes, he could do that.

With the sounds of combat mingling with the thunderous laugh and shouts of the Demon King, Zant deemed them close enough to dismount his beast. Sword sheathed at his back, he hopped down almost leisurely, as if the fate of the world wasn’t perched upon that very saddle. He turned, reached up for her, and let the limp frame of the defeated Princess Zelda collapse into his arms. 

He lifted her carefully. Her head drooped against his shoulder guard and her arms laid over her stomach, as if she were naught but asleep. With her face now visible, Ghirahim could hazard a guess as to how she’d been defeated. The same pale gray of the hands that cradled her spread to her own skin, besmirching her features with runic pestilence. She breathed still, but there was no telling for how long.

As they drew closer to the fated strife that awaited them, Ghirahim felt like every step hollowed him out deeper. It was an odd feeling, acute in its onset, that gnawed at him without apparent cause. The leash that bound him to his duty tugged on him ever stronger, but as he drew to its source, he felt the urge to dig in his heels and resist. 

Something wasn’t right. Wasn’t there more he had to do? More he had wanted? Thousands of years he had dedicated to this goal: deliver the Triforce unto his Master’s hands, so He may claim the Surface as His. It was right before him now, on the cusp of being completed, but it felt wrong. Unfulfilling.

It was just as he’d felt before, but now, he realized just how time had gotten away from him. Never did he expect his wish to dodge out of reach so quickly. With each pace of feet that shouldn’t be, his melancholy grew. His purpose was about to conclude, without him where he belonged. The Demon Blade was firmly in his scabbard and refused by his Master’s hand. In such a crucial moment, he never got to be his sword.

With that pit in his core, he watched on as the masses split by his blade and the duel carried on. Even as war raged on for hours, Ganondorf retained his poise. His stance was like that of a mountain, never to crumble, only to erupt. The flats of his enormous swords acted as shields against the fury of Link’s attacks, while their edges bore down on the boy like a butcher’s knife. His Master wielded those blades forged in the sword spirit’s shape, but empty of him, to strike down the reincarnation of his foil, almost in mockery. Ganondorf realized the picture he was meant to fulfill, certainly. He was the image of Demise, but as proven time and time again, he was his own man. With such pride came its own tools, resigning Ghirahim to symbolics only, to be by his side as an object of veneration.

But looking upon Zant, carrying the Hylian Princess in his bloodied hands, his world went still. Even he had fulfilled that part of their mission, the Twilight Scimitar as his implement. If Ghirahim didn’t know that sword to be empty, he would have taken its twilit glow to be an insult, a triumphant laugh to have stolen the King of Shadows from him. Ghirahim taught those very hands to grace that hilt, and now that they were wrapped around foreign steel, an entirely new feeling chilled him; sharpened his gaze. It was an emerald, serpentine envy. 

All that time he spent training him to wield this very blade, and now, the fruits of his labor went to that wretched thing. As he had once intended, indeed, but now that his goal was attained, he felt not a shred of satisfaction. He felt robbed, instead. The one to feel the maiden’s blood coursing down his blade should have been him. It was only logical - it was just! 

The surrounding armed forces were split into a perfect crowd. Some were frozen in place, looking on in horror as the bloodied dove that was their Princess hung cradled there in her defeat. Others threw themselves at the Twilight King in almost bestial rage, swords outstretched, had they remembered to wield them in their fury, to strike down the wicked foe that carried her. Yet, none could manage to reach him, being bounced off by a shadowed shield, or ran through by the Demon Lord’s blade, who stood to defend him without even thinking to do so. 

In an odd tranquility, Zant padded over to Ganondorf, the bottom half of his face bared and his lips a mirthless smile. 

But even with the approach of his defeated compatriot, Link did not relent. He took one look at Zelda and his face tightened into a wide-eyed snarl, before throwing himself back at Ganondorf with furious abandon. His adversary merely laughed. Whatever respect he had for his foe was no longer visible on his face. Ganondorf braced his swords, turning them in his hands with flowing sweeps like they weighed no more than paper, to deflect the Master Sword’s glowing strikes. Steel sang and thrummed under the relentless flurry of blows, but all was drowned out by the thunderous laughter from beyond the wall of metal.

Link was fierce, unrelenting. Red stains spread under his tunic where the King did not strike, but where old wounds tore open under sheer strain. Sweat coursed down his face, mingling with the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His stumble betrayed a pain untold. Yet, none of it stopped him, even as Zant drew closer, the Princess in his arms.

Tiring of the boy’s meddling, Ganondorf glared at him past his massive blade, before whacking the holy sword right out from his hand with one mighty strike. 

Ghirahim knew that alarmed chime better than anyone. He taunted her with a cheerful tone of his own.

Now disarmed, Link seemed undeterred. He wasted not a second before diving back for his blade. He could not get far before Ganondorf’s golden gauntlet clasped around his left wrist. Hyrule’s beloved Hero was lifted into the air kicking and screaming, at the horror of every bystander – all but two. The Gerudo King’s metal-clad fist drove into his ribs, shattering through a glimmering golden barrier and striking chainmail with a sickening crunch. Just like that, Link was silenced, gasping for air that would not enter him, and eyes bulging in their sockets.

And so, with his two servants standing before him in adoration, Ganondorf held his foil in his hand like a hunting trophy, and extended his other, palm turned up, to receive his next piece of destiny.

Zant stepped forward once more. He craned his head to the side, looking at Princess Zelda almost wistfully. All was silent, save nothing but the shifting of fabric, the clanking and jingling of bangles and armor, and the Princess’ strained breathing, as Zant held her out to his King in shaking arms.

Ganondorf snatched her from him without a second thought. Hoisted in the air by her wrist, Zelda still did not stir, dangling limply before her fated companion. That green-clad companion now only had eyes for her. Link stared at her pleading as though worrying enough for her might wake her. 

Whatever sentimentality was about to unfold, The Demon King put a swift stop to it. A pulse of energy burst from him with the clench of his fists around their arms. All troops were forced into silence, with two lieutenants brought to a kneel. Something thrummed in the air, like the warning signs of a thunderstorm, carrying a heavy pressure that stoked the breath. Where the sun had once cast the battlefield in a pale gold, darkness now crept in past the hills, summoned from far and wide to swirl at Ganondorf’s feet.

The bearers of Courage and Wisdom recoiled, writhing and contorting in agony as a golden glow was forced from them. Their captor paid their anguished cries no mind. The light poured from them ever stronger, almost blindingly so. Their magic had a mind of its own, knowing that to be parted from their vessels would be an unprecedented act of wrongness, and kept itself lodged firmly where it sat. It shrieked, struggling to keep itself contained, until at last, it could fight against pure power no longer. 

That same golden glow ripped from them in an instant, and Ganondorf seized up, his head craned to the skies. Wide-set eyes pierced the heavens, their gaze alone boring a hole in the dark clouds that gathered there. A resonant thrum caused the debris on the ground to skip about like grasshoppers, an image so playful yet foreboding. 

That humming grew louder, deeper, until it shook the crowd so deeply all were deafened by the shaking of their own bones, and it burst into a climax. More radiant than ever before, a bright red light flared from the Demon King as if the sun itself stood in their midst. Fierce energy whipped around him like a maelstrom before it shot into the sky, lighting the beacon to signal the beginning of the end. Above it all, Ganondorf laughed.

Drained of their worth, two Hylians were relinquished, and dropped to the ground.

[elysiaheaven]

𝗘𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲-𝟮𝟰-(The Fox's Wedding)

TW:Mentions of (cooking borisin) If you think it's actually bad from me. Just a thing Jiaoqiu actually cooks a borisin in his trailer and feeds it to baliu and sushang.

Words:2231

Jiaoqiu held you in his arms, the weight of everything you had shared pulling him into silence for a moment. His hand brushed a tear from your cheek, and despite the horror of your past, he gazed at you with a rare softness in his eyes.

"Y/n," he whispered, his voice steady even though you could hear the pain behind it. "I have a plan... something that might work. It's risky, and it could mean my death, but if it works, we can stop Hoolay, and maybe... maybe cure Feixiao." His voice faltered for a moment, but he tightened his grip on you. "I'll do my best to survive... but if I don't... I need to know."

He hesitated, searching your eyes as if they held all the answers to his unspoken fears. "Do you love me?"

Your heart clenched, the question sending a flood of emotion crashing over you. All of the pain, the darkness, the guilt—it didn't matter now. You nodded, leaning in to press your lips against his, the kiss soft but filled with all the emotion you had been holding back.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice shaky but honest. "I've loved you for so long. If things were different, if we weren't trapped in this nightmare, I would've married you... lived with you... so normally."

Jiaoqiu's eyes flickered with a mix of relief and something deeper—love, hope, maybe even fear. "If we survive this," he said softly, his voice trembling just slightly, "will you marry me?"

Before you could answer, Mok Tok's loud, grating voice shattered the moment. The creature's enormous hands grabbed hold of the cage, yanking it harshly across the prison floor. The iron bars screeched as the cage rattled, the sharp sound sending a jolt through both of you.

"If you're dying, Jiaoqiu, I'm dying with you!"

Jiaoqiu's eyes locked onto yours, his expression one of determination and pain, as he mouthed the words back to you, silent but clear.

"Not if I can help it."

Some time had passed- Now you were walking...

Jiaoqiu, in his usual calm and measured tone, began speaking, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

"As I mentioned before, I'm a healer, but my art of healing requires the culinary arts to be truly effective."

You glanced at Jiaoqiu, your mind still reeling from everything that had happened. Despite the dire situation, he spoke as though he was preparing for an ordinary conversation, as though the danger outside the bars was something distant, not imminent. You watched him closely, sensing his subtle strategy in the way he carefully picked his words.

Jiaoqiu continued, "The magic of my cauldron... my hot pot, is its ability to make all kinds of medicines into dishes that patients can easily eat. When simmered and cooked together, even the most bitter herbs become a delightful delicacy."

Mok Tok grunted, unimpressed. "Delicacy... but isn't that just one flavor overpowering the others?"

Jiaoqiu smiled, as though the hulking monster's disdain amused him. "Well, you have a point. But let me ask you this: If there's a fussy child who refuses to eat green peppers, what's the best way to make him eat them?"

Mok Tok's eyes glinted with malice as he tilted his head toward Jiaoqiu, clearly not in the mood for games. "Stuff the kid's mouth with the green peppers and cook him alive in a pot."

You stiffened at Mok Tok's words, the barbaric imagery making your stomach churn. Your fists clenched as you tried to hold your emotions in check, knowing that showing any weakness would only embolden your captors.

Just be messed up y/n, you're good at scaring people...

You always have.

Do it, you coward

But Jiaoqiu only chuckled, seemingly unfazed by the grotesque response. "Hahaha! You have quite the sense of humor." He paused, glancing at Mok Tok's massive, imposing figure. "I've heard that you borisin have lost many of your taste buds during your self-modification process. You can't experience complex flavors anymore, can you? Only the saltiness of blood and flesh can truly awaken your appetite."

Mok Tok growled low in his throat, his patience thinning. "It's a shame I don't have any green peppers right now," he sneered. "Otherwise, I'd happily stuff them into your mouth and cook you alive in a pot."

Your heart pounded faster, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on, but Jiaoqiu pressed on, undeterred.

"I'm just kidding," he said lightly, though there was an edge of steel in his voice. "The answer is simple: You chop the peppers and mix them with minced meat to make meatballs. This way, the flavor of the meat overpowers the taste of the peppers, and even a fussy child can enjoy them."

You bit your lip, barely suppressing a sigh. Jiaoqiu's calm demeanor was remarkable, but it also worried you. How long could this charade last before Mok Tok or Hoolay snapped?

Mok Tok's lip curled in annoyance, and his hand flexed dangerously near his weapon. "Can I just boil your tongue in this hot pot already? I know what you're doing. You think you're buying time until someone comes to rescue you."

His breath hot and rancid as he stared down at you and Jiaoqiu.

"You said that Jingliu recently returned to the Luofu, right?" Mok Tok sneered. "Well, she did come back... but unfortunately for you, she committed serious crimes and was escorted to another Xianzhou ship."

Your breath hitched. Jingliu, the one person who might've understood the truth, was no longer within reach. In fact, the news...about her was heartbreaking...

Mok Tok smirked at your reaction, his eyes gleaming with cruelty. "Do you really think you can delay our departure by provoking Lord Hoolay's desire for revenge with your clever little tongue? We're leaving soon, and no one's coming for you."

You felt a cold shiver run down your spine. The situation was dire, and yet, you couldn't give up. You shifted closer to Jiaoqiu, your voice trembling slightly as you whispered, "Jiaoqiu... what now?"

He glanced at you, his gaze steady despite the danger looming over both of you. "I still have a plan," he murmured softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Just trust me."

The tension continued to simmer between you, Jiaoqiu, and Mok Tok, an idea slithered into your mind—one that sent a wicked chill down your spine. Your lips curled into a twisted smile as you glanced at Mok Tok, who still hovered menacingly outside the cage.

"Do you know," you began in a slow, almost eerie tone, "how to cook a Borisin monster?"

Mok Tok turned his eyes toward you, a mixture of confusion and disgust flashing across his brutish face. He wasn't sure whether to be insulted or intrigued, but he was certainly caught off guard by the sudden shift in your demeanor.

Jiaoqiu, who had been playing the role of the calm negotiator, tensed slightly beside you. He glanced your way, his eyes flickering with concern, but he stayed silent, trusting that you had a plan—or, at the very least, a distraction.

You leaned forward, pressing your face against the bars, your voice dropping to a whisper that dripped with a sinister amusement. "First, you make sure they're still alive. You don't want the flesh to lose its, shall we say, *freshness*."

Mok Tok's eyes narrowed, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. "What are you on about, girl?"

Ignoring his snarl, you continued with a macabre smile. "Next, you skin them—slowly. They need to feel every inch of their fur being peeled away, to make sure their nerves stay active. The screams... the scent of fear... it seasons the meat just right."

Mok Tok stiffened, a disgusted scowl darkening his features. But you weren't done yet. Your voice dropped even lower, more sinister. "Then, you carve out the muscles—each slice precise, but careful not to cut too deep. You don't want to ruin the organs. Oh, and the heart? That's the best part. You let it beat a little longer before you cook it over a low flame... tender and full of life until the very last second."

A twisted giggle escaped your lips as you leaned back slightly, letting the horror of your words sink into the dimly lit air. "I wonder how you'd taste, Mok Tok," you mused, licking your lips theatrically. "Do you think you'd be tough or tender? Would your flesh fall apart, or would it cling to the bone? Leave him alone, you moron."

Mok Tok recoiled, his face twisted in rage and revulsion. "You're a monster," he growled, his fists clenching tight. "What the hell are you?"

The air seemed to thicken with your twisted amusement as you tilted your head, flashing him a smile that was anything but comforting. "One more word from you," you hissed, your voice sharp as glass, "and I'll snap your neck before you can even scream."

Mok Tok's face contorted in a mixture of anger and fear. His hand hovered near his weapon, but he didn't dare make a move. Your gaze was locked onto his, the eerie smile never faltering as you relished in the control you now held over him.

The silence stretched, heavy and thick, until finally, Mok Tok turned away with a snarl, retreating a few steps as if your words had physically pushed him back. His hulking frame trembled with barely contained rage, but he didn't speak.

Jiaoqiu exhaled softly beside you, the tension in the air finally easing as Mok Tok took a step further from the cage. He looked at you, a mixture of awe and apprehension in his eyes.

"That was... something," he murmured under his breath.

You leaned back against the cold bars, your twisted smile fading slightly as the weight of reality settled back in. The darkness that had surfaced inside you retreated, but not entirely. "We're not playing games anymore," you whispered to Jiaoqiu, your voice steady. "If we want to help Feixiao, we need to be as dangerous as they are. But" you clutched your head.... You wanted to cry....acting like this is....

Mok Tok stood before you and Jiaoqiu, his eyes dark and menacing as he spoke, his voice dripping with scorn. "You see, borisin, you may view us as savages who know nothing of the Xianzhou, but we are far more aware than you think. We know about your tracking tricks—like the jade abacus you carry and the cycranes circling in the sky."

Jiaoqiu's eyes narrowed as he considered Mok Tok's words, his hand gripping the bars of the cage tightly. He remained silent, waiting for the right moment to counter.

Mok Tok continued, his gaze shifting between you and Jiaoqiu. "The more hope you hold in your heart, the greater your pain will be when death comes. I wonder if you can maintain your composure when I tear your throat open."

A shadow fell over the room as a new voice cut through the oppressive tension. "His composure is only a temporary effect of the medicine, and it will wear off soon, right?"

The voice belonged to none other than Hoolay. His imposing figure loomed over the scene as he stepped into view, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity.

Mok Tok turned to Hoolay with a mixture of fear and respect. "Lord Hoolay."

Hoolay's gaze swept across the room, a cold smile playing on his lips. "You pathetic foxians. For thousands of years, we were the ones who allowed you to live and granted you civilization. But in the end, you chose to betray us for the 'freedom' promised by the Xianzhou people."

He took a few menacing steps closer, his voice dripping with contempt. "But it's alright. As long as you catch the scent of your masters—borisins—you obediently return to us... no matter how far you run."

You watched Hoolay with a mixture of dread and defiance. Unable to hold back any longer, you took a deep breath and spoke, your voice trembling but resolute. "Run away, you say? Well, I'm not the one who's trying to run away right now."

Hoolay's eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to you, his smile widening in cruel amusement. "Ah, the little goddess speaks. How charming."

Jiaoqiu seized the opportunity to sow discord. He looked directly at Hoolay, his tone laced with bitter truth. "Hoolay, have you ever wondered why it took them seven centuries to come to your rescue?"

Mok Tok flinched at Jiaoqiu's words, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He glanced nervously at Hoolay, who had grown silent, his expression unreadable.

Jiaoqiu pressed on, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "The borisin's era has long passed. Did they ever tell you these harsh facts before giving you hope of returning home, Lord Hoolay?"

Hoolay's expression darkened, his eyes blazing with anger. "Do not attempt to sway me with your empty words, Jiaoqiu. The truth of the past is irrelevant. What matters now is the vengeance I will exact upon those who dared defy us."

You could see the tension in Hoolay's stance, the flicker of doubt in his eyes as Jiaoqiu's words began to sink in. Despite your dire situation, a spark of hope flickered within you—a hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the seeds of discord Jiaoqiu was planting could turn the tide in your favor.

Mok Tok shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between Hoolay and Jiaoqiu, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily upon him. The room seemed to hold its breath, the outcome of this tense standoff hanging precariously in the balance.

Hoolay's rage surged once more...

[littleplasticrat]

Fic: Rugan x Dammon x Tav

The Orchid and the Honeyeaters

Explicit: Rugan x Dammon x Tav

Following on from this chapter

Warning tags below the cut

Tags: fantasy roleplay, consensual non-consent, fucking on top of a corpse but actually it's just the old man and he won't stop giggling, witch-hunting

-

Considering how unlikely it was that the cage would be used again, Tav was impressed at the effort Dammon had put into its construction. The wheels rolled relatively smoothly and it hardly rattled as it went over the flagstones outside his forge. She’d been expecting to have her teeth juddered half out of her head as she was pushed around in it, but it was — not comfortable, because it was narrow enough that she had to remain with her legs folded beneath her, but not unpleasant. After Rugan had helped her climb in, her artfully ragged skirts getting caught on the latch, he’d wrapped a chain through the fastening so that she was trapped inside; his willing prisoner.

Twilight was falling across the city, and the lamplighters were going about their duties as people slowly returned home. Tav looked across the rooftops to where the colour was fading from the sky, then looked back at her lover.

“What name are you calling yourself?”

“Shepley.”

“And what are you calling me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, giving her a hard look. Good, he was getting into character – but he was making a vital error. She opened her mouth to remind him but he had already pushed past the cage and shouldered the door of the workshop open. “Silence, witch,” he barked over his shoulder. “That’s enough trickery from you.”

Tav tried to suppress the warm feeling of familiarity upon being wheeled into Dammon’s room; the scent of his sweat mingled with freshly-worked leather and metal, the sight of his beloved tools and the sturdy old furniture (many items of which she had already been bent over since the tiefling had begun renting the space). Although her heart was thumping with happiness and excitement, she forced her eyes to dart around the room like a creature hunted, her hands curled around the bars. Dammon was standing at a bench with a hammer in his hand. When her eyes alit on him, he looked away quickly, grabbing a corner of his apron and almost wringing it in a facsimile of nervousness. He was good.

“Inkeep says I can keep her in here for the night. I’ll tuck the cage up somewhere out of your way,” said Rugan, his voice gruff.

“Wh– Who are you?” asked Dammon, taking a faltering step towards them. “And why have you got this woman in a cage?”

“I am Shepley the witchfinder, this fae witch was my quarry, and you’ll do well to stay away from her,” said Rugan.

Tav schooled her face to look as the woman in the illustration in this chapter of The Orchid and the Honeyeaters had looked; wild, sultry and yet somehow piteous. The dress she wore had a tight bodice in a thin fabric that showed off the shape of her torso; she pressed her breasts to the bars and gave a little sigh to attract Dammon’s attention over Rugan’s — no, Shepley’s — shoulder. Dammon’s blue gaze darted to her before Rugan stepped in the way, blocking his view.

“Fae whores like this one, you’ve got to be careful with them,” he said. “Don’t look her in t’eyes, or she’ll bewitch you. But I can see you’re curious, blacksmith. If it means you’ll leave her be once I’ve got the cover on her cage, I’ll show you something. Come ‘ere. Mind her gaze.”

Rugan beckoned. Dammon took one step forward, then another one, until he was almost beside them. His face seemed almost slack, his eyes glazed. The hammer was loose in one hand, and he still had his apron in the other. If Tav was any judge, he was as hard as a rock within his leathers. The thought made her wet - well, that and the anticipation of what was about to happen.

“Witches, see, they don’t only have one source of power, no. It’s not only the eyes,” said Rugan. “She could pop a lock of her hair in a barrel of water and turn it to wine. Not that humble men like us would be recommended to drink it. And –” At this, Rugan leaned forwards, his voice conspiratorial. Dammon leaned closer too, almost hypnotised by the witchfinder’s performance. “The juices of a wench like this can increase your strength and vigour a thousandfold.”

“What do you mean?” whispered Dammon, playing innocent. Tav steeled herself. But gods, she was wet.

“I’ll show ye, lad.”

Rugan’s big hands snapped forwards, faster than striking snakes, and through the bars of the cage. Tav was caught by the neck, with his thumb pressing lightly into her jugular. The other hand found its way quickly through her skirts and up to where she was already so hot for him. He cupped her there, finger brushing the delicate lips before sliding inside her, its passage smooth with her arousal. She felt a moan threaten to burst from her lips and was able to turn it into an angry keening noise that roughened when he slipped a second finger in without resistance. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the fingers withdrew.

There was a soft gasp from Dammon and she knew that Rugan had licked the sharp honey from one of his fingers. Tav opened her eyes in time to see him proffer the other finger to the blacksmith, who hesitantly bent forwards and sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks and making a deep noise in his chest. Rugan’s mouth had fallen open slightly. His hand was still resting on her throat, more a performance of violence than any kind of discomfort.

“Do you feel it?” asked the witchfinder. “That fae strength.”

Dammon nodded. “Yes, but… This is a cruelty. It’s not freely given.” If Tav hadn’t known he was acting, she would have really believed the pity that clouded his eyes when he looked at the broad hand on her neck.

“No matter. It’s mine anyway,” said Rugan, then turned away from the tiefling and put his hand back through the cage. Tav began making noises of protest and trying to wriggle away, but he tightened his grip slightly and tugged her forwards. As Dammon watched, outrage written across his face, Rugan pushed into her again. The room was silent but for the wet noises of her cunt as he began to fingerfuck her, pulling her harder against the bars of the cage. She panted, tried and failed not to moan, half-choked out a curse as she stared daggers at him. To avoid looking at her, he kept his eyes fixed on the way her tits were crushed against the cage. He pulled his hand away from between her legs, lifted it to his mouth to suck away her juices, then plunged it back down again. A cry of fury spilled from her lips.

The two of them were locked into it now, and Tav genuinely didn’t notice when Dammon stepped away from the cage and behind the man fingering her to within an inch of her life. Then there was a sudden dull thud, and Rugan’s eyes widened in shock. He started to say something garbled, then crumpled dramatically to the floor before the cage. The blacksmith stood behind him, hammer raised. There was a moment of silence. Tav thought she saw the corner of Rugan’s mouth twitch, but he was able to keep his face neutral. Now it’s my time, she thought to herself.

“Quickly, release me from the cage, I beseech thee,” she begged, reaching through the cage towards Dammon, who was doing a good impression of a man in shock. “Good blacksmith, let me go and I swear I will not bewitch you, only give you my blessing.”

“Y–Your blessing?” he asked, suddenly looking up from the witchfinder’s corpse. The hammer fell from his grip.

“Yes, my blessing, saer. I will let you drink deeply from my core, and bathe yourself within me. The strength that is your reward will never fade. Please release me.”

Dammon shakily nodded, then went to fetch a pair of large shears that he used to cut through the chain on the door of the cage. As he helped Tav down onto her feet, she wobbled slightly and he caught her against his chest. Tilting her chin up, he kissed her with a groan of pleasure. They began to pull at each others’ clothes, Tav’s dress tearing off easily and Dammon’s outfit hitting the floor soon after. She imagined a pool of blood growing beneath the witchfinder’s head, following the lines of the flagstones.

“Here, take me on the body of mine enemy which you have slain,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him to the floor. As he dropped to his knees, his eyes raked over her body as if he were trying to memorise every freckle and scar. Laying her back against the firmness of Rugan’s torso, Dammon ran his hands over her, squeezing her breasts, gripping her haunches. 

Tav tipped her head back and moaned when his lips found her nipples. Often, when they had sex, Dammon would be gallant and slow, taking his time to reduce her to a mess before he even touched her between the legs. But something about this game had set him alight; finishing with her tits, he bit the meat of her stomach and then dove his face between her thighs, lifting her up fully by the hips so he could begin to hungrily tongue-fuck her. She howled under the onslaught, her back arched and her fingers gripping the witchfinder’s leathers as she held on for dear life.

Fastening his lips around her clit and sucking desperately, Dammon pushed her forwards further so her hips were now balanced on Rugan’s stomach and the back of her head was touching the floor. With his hands free, he slid two fingers inside her and crooked them, making her sob with the intensity of feeling. He was putting his whole arm into the thrusts, and she found herself being jolted with every push against that spot inside her. In the maelstrom of pleasure, all she could do was throw her head back and wail as she came, spilling wetness across his palm and onto the floor.

Before she had time to catch her breath, Dammon was back on her, grasping at her hips to flip her over so she was lying face down over Rugan. She let out an outraged squeal as he manhandled her so her arse was raised in the air. When a ringing slap landed on her cheek she twisted around, ready to scold Dammon, and saw Rugan’s hand resting where it had struck her. Suddenly, she realised the man beneath her was shaking with laughter.

“Oi,” she said. “You’re supposed to be a corpse.”

Dammon let out a snort and Rugan opened one eye as Tav crawled up his body so they were almost nose to nose.

“How am I supposed to stay dead when I’ve got a hot little vixen wriggling around on top of me?” he asked.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Tav chided. “We’re supposed to be following Dammon’s dirty story.”

“It’s alright,” came a gentle voice from behind her. “I don’t mind if he’s alive – but I really, really need to fuck you.”

Tav looked back at him over her shoulder and smiled. Dammon’s expression turned from sweet to focused when she spread her thighs and arched her back in invitation. He moved forwards and took her haunch in one hand, then she felt him pushing the tip of his cock against her slit. As the pressure grew, she looked back at Rugan. Dammon pushed himself inside, and the Zhent beneath her smirked at her widened eyes and the way her mouth fell open into a pout. The thick, heavy cock stretched and filled her until the tiefling had fully sheathed it inside her body. A groan began to leave her, then Rugan stole it with a kiss.

Dammon’s patient thrusts started slowly at first; he’d regained some modicum of his usual self-control. Beneath her body, Rugan’s clever fingers found her swinging breast and he began tweaking at the nipple as she was jostled against him by the strength in Dammon’s hips, making her shudder and bite at his neck. His other hand was busy somewhere out of her eye line, but when he uttered his own groan of satisfaction, she realised he had begun touching himself to the rhythm of the fucking. 

Fingers dug into her hips as Dammon adjusted his position, and then he was pulling her back onto his cock, harder and harder. He was grunting with the effort, chanting her name, groaning at the pleasure he was creating with her body. Tav could feel him beginning to thicken even more and knew he was nearing the precipice; she snaked a hand between her legs and began rubbing herself with desperate fervour. She was so hot, so close to the edge herself. When Rugan plunged his tongue into her panting mouth, she shuddered and came. It was a little blip of an orgasm at first, but the pulsing of Dammon’s cock as he spilled inside her synchronised with her own muscle spasms, and she found herself on top of a wave that just kept going, white-hot wetness that sent her nearly mad. She arched her back and clawed at Rugan as he shot a thick spool of spend onto her goosebumped skin.

Giving a final half-pump and then withdrawing, Dammon flopped down onto the floor next to them, the colour high in his cheeks. Tav let out a satisfied sigh, and the tiefling shot her a blissful smile.

“Thank you,” he said to both of them, after a few moments where they all just lay there, taking each other in. “That was amazing.”

“Even the talking corpse?” asked Tav. Rugan pinched her and she squealed.

“Even the talking corpse.”

“I have a question,” said Rugan. “What was that you hit me with?”

“I made a special prop hammer,” said Dammon, laughing. “It’s a thin, hollow metal shell. I’m surprised it didn’t crumple actually.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” said Tav. “Very authentic. What are you going to make for next time?”

Dammon glanced quickly at her, then his face broke into a wide grin. It was impossible for Tav not to return the smile as Rugan wound an arm over her waist. “We’ll have to pick another story first.”