#though i do not have that kind of glorious body. not yet at least

[ahtal-ka]

bonus points to whoever knows which stupid post i got this from

[mothwingwritings]

Miscommunication

F!Reader X Pickle

Hello everyone! Sorry for the lack of communication. I’ve been doing this or that, working on stuff, surviving summer, you know how it is.

I have been picking away at quite a few fics recently, but I am all over the place so they are all getting worked on/done/edited at different paces. I wrote this lil Pickle fic in the midst of it all. It was born purely from the thought of a yandere licking up your tears that they themself were the cause of, so I picked a guy and ran with that. I chose Picky because my feral mans does NOTrealize how much of a menace he is to you but by God he’s gonna keep on forcing his love on you until one of you dies. :)

18+ ONLY PLEASE!!!

Thank you and enjoy!

WARNINGS: Noncon, forced interaction/cuddling, dacryphilia, miscommunication (if you couldn’t tell by the title), light editing, 18+ only!!!

There were plenty of things Pickle loved about you.

He loved the way you looked. So different from the people of his time, you were distinct in a way all your own. The moment he first laid his eyes upon you he was beseeched by curiosity, your unique appearance adding to the intrigue of your already undeniable beauty and charm. You were smaller, softer, and far more polished than the women he was used to. With glossy well-kept hair and not a mark of dirt or grime upon your body, you appeared to him to be almost glowing. This pure presentation made him feel as if he was beholding some glorious creature from another planet, not a mere human woman. You were definitely something that should be far out of his reach, breathtakingly lovely, but unattainable. Yet somehow here you were, right within his grasp, ripe for his consumption. Having such a gorgeous and otherworldly creature in his vicinity was far too enticing, how could he not be expected to stake his claim?

He loved the way you smelled, though those strange sprays you coated your body with were a bit much for his liking. He preferred your natural scent, the one you always tried to mask for whatever reason, the one that differentiated you from the rest of the herd. He could pick it out from anywhere at any time no matter how far from him you strayed, but it would become especially pungent when you were worked up or excited. He relished those moments, pleased to get a whiff of it through the artificial cover of stinking flowers and fruits. Heady and ambrosial, he would bask in your natural essence, inhaling it deeply as if he were receiving a treat.

He also loved the way you sounded, though your words made no sense to him. All the people that surrounded him seemed to make the same kinds of noises, their lips forming sounds that he was sure held all manner of meaning, but none of it he was privy to. Not that it mattered to him really. Different forms of communication suited him much better than spoken word ever could anyway, and despite the lack of common speech he shared with his new peers, he got by just fine. When Pickle bared his teeth or showed open pleasure, those that were nearby seemed to understand him all the same, so there had never been much need to put thought into their dialogue.

… That was, until he met you. It frustrated him sometimes, when you would speak to him with words he could not comprehend. When you talked with a smile he could assume he did something pleasing, or at the very least you weren’t upset, but when you would frown and raise your voice… What exactly was upsetting you? If it was something he did he wanted to correct it right away, your pretty smile suited you much better than a grumpy frown did. He’d do just about anything to keep it on your face forever, if only he knew the words to say or understood the specific requests you spoke to make that happen. The sounds that spilled from your throat… What praises and admonishments was he missing? What words could he say back to keep you smiling, laughing, happy? He wanted to know, struggled to know, but the language barrier was just too great, leaving him distraught and guessing.

When you spoke to other people (other men particularly) and they understood you perfectly, chuckling and nodding, responding to you in kind… It upset him. Who were they to communicate with you so freely? Who were they to speak with you so openly, when all he could seem to get across was rudimentary ideas and feelings? Even if he loved to hear the cadence of your voice, the lack of understanding and the annoyance these mysterious conversations caused was something he couldn’t quite shake.

But even with all the adoration he felt for you, there was one, and only one, thing he didn’t love about you- your tears.

In his era, cries from your mate meant one of a small handful of things. They were hurt and/or scared, there was a threat nearby and they needed protection, or they simply needed their mates help with something. Regardless of which of these options may have brought on the tears, it was always very easy to figure out what the situation was and for the other party to act accordingly.

But each time you cried was a conundrum. You never seemed to shed just a few tears, throwing your heart into full on wailing at the top of your lungs each time your eyes began to remotely water. Whenever this would occur he would momentarily panic, scooping your perturbed body up to force you against his chest, desperate in his attempt to ascertain a cause of concern that would bring you to this state, one that he could never seem to find. He’d turn your body around this way and that, scouring every inch of you with his eyes and hands to check and see if he could pinpoint any wounds or blood. But while you thrashed and fought as he carried out his inspection, his hands always came back clean, and you never seemed to show particular distress when he pressed down on any given area of your body (save for your more private areas, but you always put up a fuss with those). He’d investigate your surrounding area, prowling for anyone or anything that may have scared you or caused alarm, but found nary a soul or item out of place that could have caused you such distress.

That only left the third option- that you were looking to him for help. But help with what? He had already secured you in the safest place he could find, nestling you far away from any potential threats or creatures that could cause you harm. Though he knew you were not a fan of the dank, malodorous, stone underbelly of the village, it was something you would have to get used to. Keeping you elsewhere was simply too risky. Besides, this area was familiar to him, being not unlike some of the cave dwellings of his old home. And with the pathways being so straightforward and long, he could easily monitor surrounding activity and hide you away should someone show up to cause problems (not that anyone would, most seemed to ignore this place entirely, which was another one of its many appeals).

The paths also snaked deep underground, with exits leading rather far out from the more bustling areas of civilization. It made it easy to hunt and gather, so he had no problems providing you with food, clothing, bedding-anything at all you may need he brought to you, and he was happy to do so. He took honor in being your provider, your lover, your mate.

You were safe, you were cared for, and you were loved by him. He showed it in every way he could, serving and providing in ways that went above and beyond what any other potential partner could do for you. Down here in the depths, he shielded you from all that may have hurt you in your old life. Maybe he didn’t understand your speech, but he could clearly see the toll living with the others above ground was taking on you. Each slump of your shoulder and sigh from your lips was recorded in his memory, the weary look you often wore as you pushed yourself harder than necessary haunted his thoughts until he was pushed into action. Every man whose misplaced comments made you scowl had met a grisly end by his hands, assuring they would never bother you again. Every stress of your old life had been removed, all of the agonies of your previous day to day a thing of the past.

Now the only thing you had to focus on was being a good mate to him- a skill you already excelled at by simply existing. You had no need to be sad, you were perfect, and he was doing all he could to show you this.

So why? Why did you always cry?

Even now as he was buried deep inside of you, the pleasure of feeling you stretch to accommodate his massive size so intense he could barely maintain his sanity, tears continued to spill freely from your eyes.  There was absolutely no reason for them- you were always such a good girl for him, bringing him pleasure and joy he scarcely believed was achievable. If anything you should be proud about how well you take him, about how incredibly good you were making him feel, about how flawless you were as his mate. He loved you, he adored you, he would do any and everything for you, and he planned on doing so until his dying day.

Yet still, you cried.

He couldn’t keep them from happening, and he couldn’t think of any other way to stop them, so the least he could do is try and staunch them for a bit. Holding your face still between his hands, he laved his rough tongue slowly over the apples of your cheeks, passing over your tightly clenched eyes in an attempt to cleanse you of your malaise. Time and time again he lapped at your face like a mother lion cleaning it’s cub, moving from the left cheek to the right cheek in quick succession to drink up as many of your salty tears as he could.

Eventually it seemed to work, or at least it caused your upset sobbing to turn into little more than gentle mewling. Maybe you were just doing this to appease him, or perhaps you were finally sharing in the immense pleasure he had been experiencing, overshadowing whatever negative feelings caused you to cry to begin with. Regardless, the tears were trickling to a standstill, and while they weren’t completely quelled, seeing them diminish caused him to smile brightly. He could consider this a victory.

But as he stared down at your tear stained face, moist and red from a mixture of his saliva and your own upset, he couldn’t deny that there wasn’t a charm to witnessing you in such a state. As he picked up his pace, reaching a particularly sweet spot inside of you, you began to scream out, overcome with the intensity of it all. Once more water seeped into your eyes, and he watched mesmerized as fat tears slid down your face, accompanied by whimpers each time his brutal pacing brushed your core. The way your tears accented your ecstasy, adding to the breath taking view only he would ever have the delight of seeing, he couldn’t find himself hating your cries any longer.

Maybe he had been misguided this whole time, realizing now that this may just be another special attribute of yours. He was starting to understand you better, and felt a fool for being so mistaken for so long. Your cries were unique, acting as a sign of immense happiness, not distress. He laughed slightly at his own blunder, it wouldn’t be the first time he had misunderstood you, but this certainly was the most ridiculous miscommunication.

His smile grew as he thrust into you victoriously, elated at his triumph in unlocking a great mystery about you. This whole time he should have never tried to stop them. From now on, he should try and make you cry more.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Hello 👋 can I get a little body switcheru with twist dorm liders and Yuu? Even better if we'd have F!Yuu in this one ❤️!

I don't think I'll be doing all the dorm leaders right now but just a few 🖤🖤🖤

Body Switch | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

What a gift! To see precisely what your obsession sees, to touch with their perfect hand, to hear their lovely voice whenever they opened their mouth. Oh, the possibilities are endless! No matter the circumstance this is the stuff of dreams nightmares:

Vil Schoenheit

“OH SEVENS!”

Is at first horrified at the feeling of not being in his perfectly preened body

In his clean and not dingy home

But it diminishes when he realizes the one screaming in the dirty mirror is you

His precious love

“Ergh these black heads are insane. My potato has been neglecting their routine. That’ll be good to make a note of.”

He immediately gets to work

He has to make the next 24 hours in his dearest’s body count 

and he’s got so much to do and such little time

Immediately he inspects your home and makes a note of everything that’s lacking in Ramshackle

Perfect ammunition for his proposal to move to Pomefiore

Next he reads your diary or journal if you have one

And he dives into your photos and makes a mental note to send more headshots to you

Next he goes to Rook

“We have less than 12 hours before I return, get your camera.”

Already planned and prepared the photos are perfection

Next he takes your measurements 

Both for clothes and for ropes and fluffy cuffs

He debates deleting your friends from your contacts

But he’s not petty he is he’ll just send a text or two with passive aggressive undertones

And when he’s got close to an hour 

He takes the time to…examine your every inch …careful to not leave a mess behind

“So…soft and round…they will look glorious in couture.”

Idia Shroud

“Eeek! It worked!”

Spends nearly an hour squealing and jumping around

But then he goes to the mirror and starts his fantasy 

Using your lips to confess an undying love to Idia Shroud 

He records it and everything 

Next he goes to his room, already set up to allow a very specific code

He goes to his dorm

Everything is going perfectly to plan

Next he plans to dress you in the cosplay he already has your measurements for

“Yes! Now I just have to take this o-o-off! Ack! T-their s-skin! No! I can’t e-e-even if I’ve s-seen it through the camra it is so different!”

He genuinely can’t make it past your shirt

Too embarrassed and caught up in simply seeing all your skin

So instead he’ll move onto the next objective

Going to the pick up spot he’d already designated

Riding calmly as your taken to some unknown artificial island 

“Hehehe well at least one objective was completed…let’s just say that other one isn’t one of my skill levels just yet. Hehehe I’ll have more than enough time to level up though!”

Malleus Draconia

Someone or you must have said that little expression

“Try walking in my shoes! Its really inconvenient when you scare everyone away from me!”

“In your shoes?”

So he tries it 

Having your body become his own, allowing a day without his, in your words: overpowered bod

Oh is he warm

So warm he feels like your constantly hugging him 

Its immaculate

Than he spends a good while just admiring you in the mirror 

More than happy to study every pore of your skin in great detail

“Oh I did not realize their birth mark was this adorable.”

But he’ll soon find your legs ache so easily

Why can’t he stand straight for seven hours without your knees getting wobbly

Or how defenseless you are 

With nothing but his tiny wisps if his own magic to sense 

Its kind of horrifying 

But as agreed he tries to go throughout the day as you 

Enjoying the attention of all your friends

Granted they send weird looks when he says something odd

But you’ve already employed Grim as ‘his wingman’

Who frantically tries to get him through the day

He learns so much ‘by being in your shoes’ 

“I do not appreciate everyone having such careless interactions with you, especially when the amount of muscle let alone magic is…concerning.”

[blackcherryvelvet0909]

The Dragon's Gem (Malleus x GN!Reader)

Note: This banner will change in the future. I haven't had time to create a Halloween one yet. I meant to publish a Lilia fic today, but due to unforseen circumstances this week I was not able to complete it in time. I'm very sorry I've been slow lately - work has been something else. I hope to get the energy back sometime soon. My main goal is to finish the Beach Episode series, then move onto a mix of the Masquerade and Halloween events. Very late, I know, and I'm sorry. Please bare with me (I am very tired). Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this drabble in the meantime. Happy Halloween!!

“Is it real?”

“Hm?”

Malleus turned to face his beloved Child of Man. His pupils dilated at the mere sight of them, their glorious visage rivaling the most fantastic wonders of the world. To see that beautiful person staring down at his tail in their own wonderment made his heart swell all the more.

“Your tail,” they said, pointing to the appendage in question. “It doesn’t move like a fake one would, nor does it look like it’s made of plastic or something. So, is it real?”

“Yes, it is.” Malleus confirmed. “It is a part of my true form; I rarely reveal it, as it could be quite troublesome to others.”

“How so?”

Their genuine curiosity was adorable. Malleus could not help the smile that tugged at his lips. “Well, sitting at a desk would be a trifle. They are often closely packed together. Unlike, say, Kingscholar’s tail, it would be hard to tuck mine somewhere it wouldn’t get in the way.” Malleus’s smile then wavered as he continued. “That, and I am already greatly feared by most of the student body. I suppose I want to make myself appear less…monstrous around them.”

[Name]’s gaze softened, their lips down-turning along with their eyebrows. Malleus’s heart skipped a beat; he did not mean to make them sad! Before he could apologize, however, his Child of Man spoke again - softly, tenderly.

“I can’t say much for others, but you’re not a monster, Malleus.” Their hand came to rest upon his arm. The look in their eyes was sincere - the emotion so prominent it practically swept Malleus off his feet. “Tail or no tail, you’re just like the rest of us.” Finally, a smile graced their features once more. “Your features don’t make me love you any less.”

Love…could that be…? No - no, certainly not. The proclamation was far too casual to be a confession. That, and if they were to do such a thing, would it not be with some sort of gift in tow? It was the proper thing to do - at least that’s what Malleus had been taught. Could [Name]’s courting rituals be different in their world? Malleus would have to pry at a later date…but how to do so without being too forward?

“Malleus?” [Name] called softly, head tilted to the side. “Are you there?”

Malleus snapped out of his thoughts with a silent gasp. He quickly composed himself and smiled down at them. “Yes, I am alright - more than alright, actually. Your words have touched my very soul. Thank you for your kind words; I will try to remember them from now on.”

[Name] seemed relieved with his answer. They smiled and nodded, then retracted their hand from his arm. Malleus missed the contact immediately, but did not reach out for them. He would do so later, when the act would not seem to forward - too desperate. Oh, if only Lilia were here now; perhaps he could bestow upon Malleus some more wisdom if he were. Without him, however, Malleus would make due for the time being.

Malleus noticed [Name]’s eyes were back on his tail, a look of curiosity within them. The man’s smile widened a tad, eyes narrowed in amusement. He nudged his tail forward - he chuckled when [Name] flinched in surprise. How adorable they were.

“You are welcome to touch it, if you like.” Malleus’s next words were spoken with a mild teasing lilt. “I should warn you though: it could easily send you flying if you’re not careful.”

The Child of Man showed no hesitation in their smile or movements. Their eyes lit up with joy; their hands quickly found the scales of the tail, tracing each with their fingertips. It took all of Malleus’s being not to explode in a red flush at that moment - especially with the words that left his dear one’s lips.

“I’m not too worried; I know you won’t hurt me.”

No - Malleus could never even dream of it.

Perhaps Halloween outside of Briar Valley was just as enjoyable. Hopefully, in the near future, the prince could bring a precious gem back with him - if they would have him.

[yiga-hellhole]

TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING: CHAPTER 16

the next chapter is live! does the promo art look a little familiar? :3c

Ghirahim is forced to face his mistakes. Perhaps he'll make a couple more.

again thanks to @bulgariansumo for proofreading!! additional credits go to twilit conlang and the enochian decoder. you'll have to do a little puzzling this chapter if you want the full context.. heehee

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

ao3 mirror

cw this chapter for referenced mutilation and self-neglect

It was a fool’s errand, but one only he could dare to run. Ghirahim made his way through the Temple as if mounted on tracks, heading right for his Master’s offices. He knew he’d be angry. That he wouldn’t care for his company and, by all means, could put him right back in the crate where he came from. Yet, at that moment, that kind of absolution was all that could bring him peace. After the buzzing that haunted his mind the past few days, he felt the wrath of his Master would at least set him straight.

A knock at the door, a grumble allowing him entry. Ganondorf was working documents at a great, dark oak desk, framed by the reds of a roaring granite fireplace behind him. The same gold filigree that seemed to spontaneously grow throughout the Temple sprawled here, too, fanning out across the furniture like twisting vegetation. Ghirahim’s entry was not acknowledged any further, leading him to the nerve-wracking decision to approach him on his own accord. He padded across marble, across tapestry, until at long last he stood beside the Gerudo. His dark bronze skin was lined with fatigue, though it was an indulgent one. Ghirahim didn’t need to touch him to confirm the divine power that now surged through his veins. Shreds of mortality were stripped from him that fateful battle upon claiming the Triforce of Power; now, simple concepts like ‘hunger’ and ‘exhaustion’ only held their truest value in nostalgia, lingering to commit to a humble memory until he needed them no longer. All that power and Ghirahim had disappointed — no, enraged him. Somehow, remorse had to be conveyed, lest his loyalty be questioned. But before he could speak, his knees buckled. He fell forward, grasping at the fabric of his clothing to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. It was pathetic. And pitiful. And somewhere, he was thankful for it. To faint into him was a far more succinct way to beg for forgiveness than any words could have conveyed. The Demon King looked down at him and let him stay.

For a while, they remained silent. Ghirahim kneeled beside his Master’s seat, his cheek and folded arms resting on his thigh. Perhaps this was the mere quiet before the storm, simply lying in wait while Ganondorf thought of a suitable punishment, but he didn’t care. The fireplace cast him in an amber light, warming his skin but incomparable to the heat Ganondorf sent through him. 

His eyes fluttered shut and he let his force surge through him. Like a cyclical breath, golden power entered his body, sparked in his core, and flowed back out. Lights danced behind his eyelids, deep magenta Malice joining hands with shining stars and weaving together into one single glorious aura. It was so, so familiar, but so far from him he could cry. The vague impression this embrace gave him was nothing compared to the tidal wave he felt when Demon hands clasped around his hilt and encouraged him to kill.

His eyes lazily creaked back open when Ganondorf began to speak, still not looking up from his desk. “I trust that this warning will have sufficed, Lord Ghirahim. My patience is running thin.”

The scratching of the quill halted. Ganondorf was considering his words enough to pull his concentration from his work. “I have tolerated petty distractions and selfish ambitions. I have allowed you your whims, yes, for I find nothing as distasteful as keeping reputable men on a leash.”

“It is your duty to understand that I did not hire you for you to act as my disobedient pet. What I will not allow, is for your reckless behavior to lead to failure. ”

Ghirahim winced at the resumed sounds of quill scratching on paper. The sharp noise and his scolding combined enough for it to feel like the words were being scratched into his skin.

“I will not let you down again, My Master. I only hope that you understand my plight. Disobey you, I would never, but I cannot help what I was forged for.”

“You are crossing a line, Demon Lord,” Ganondorf growled, lip curling as he tapped his nib irritably against the parchment. “I will not repeat myself. Your failure to set your ambitions aside poses threats to my army. Threats which I will suffer no longer.”

Ghirahim stiffened. Indeed, Ganondorf could not have made himself any clearer and should not have had to. He clutched him, pressed himself against him fearfully as if he were not the source of that fear. 

Something warm placed itself on his head. His Master was stroking his hair. A sigh puffed out of Ganondorf. The contact and the almost wistful noise were enough to make Ghirahim melt to the touch. “Perhaps… When this war is over and the throne is in my hands, I may consider returning you to my scabbard.”

A perhaps, a maybe, a promise not to let him defend him in the glory of war, but to be strapped at his hip as an emergency measure. It was humiliating, teeth-grittingly so, yet to his frustrations, he felt a fluttering feeling in his gut. In the end, knowing he would be wielded made him happy, no matter the circumstance. Ganondorf was a deliberate man, organizing him carefully among his now many commanders, whereas Demise would have seized him long ago. Ghirahim huddled himself tighter to his leg, closing his eyes again under the comfort of fingers stroking through his locks.

No, he wasn’t Him. But he was Demise’s promise. So long as that Kingdom stood firm, there would be those who opposed it. To Hyrule, it was a curse, but to Ghirahim, it was his grounding beacon. If he could not serve his true Master, then he could join those who shared His Hatred and inherited His power as the torchbearer. It was all a weapon could do — what a weapon should do.

He had a purpose and he lived to fulfill it. There simply wasn’t room for anything more, nor did he have the right to wish for it. 

Face digging into the fabric of his breeches, he swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat.

A rapping at the door interrupted them. Someone outside cleared their throat briskly, and from that sound alone Ghirahim recognized who it was. He had to restrain a sigh.

“Milord, you have received correspondence from the Deku Lordship in the north,” announced Yuga from outside the room. “Shall we review it together?”

Ganondorf craned his head to face the door, then glanced back down at Ghirahim from the corner of his eye. “You are dismissed. I trust you to see to the trainees for today.”

His body was sluggish and hesitant to pull away from the warm comfort of Ganondorf’s lap, but his spirit was firm in its obedience. Ghirahim rose his head with a nod, gazing up at him one last time. Before Ganondorf could bid the sorcerer beyond the door to enter, the sword spirit had already blinked away.

—

Of course, he didn’t have to attend to his duties for long. His relentless drilling of the Demon King’s lower-ranking commanders had made fine warriors out of many of them. The training fields beyond the Temple’s vast gardens were occupied by hundreds, be they demon, Gerudo, undead, or aberration, all equally eager to show off their skills before their esteemed lieutenant. Pride surged through him as he walked through the sparring masses. He was far too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor to notice all the distasteful displays of footwork and clumsy swings among the common soldiery. His commanders were immaculate: elegant and deadly; quick to punish. There was hardly any need for him to intervene in their training. If he did, it was only ever for his amusement. Yes, every single one of these small-fries, he’d left them in good hands. 

They were holding up just fine without him. 

That realization was subtle at first, budding as a comfort and as proof that he had instructed them well. Watching from the sidelines, his foot began to tap onto the trampled dirt with a nervous tic the more he saw the commanders swoop in to correct their pawns. Had they done this the entire time, with such efficiency, in his absence? He felt branches grow, tendrils, bearing thorns and pointed edges that dug into his pride the longer he stood and watched. He couldn’t stomach it. A being made for combat should not merely watch as others have all the fun. The Demon Lord was many things, but redundant, he was not. 

Before he knew it, he’d pulled one of his commanders aside, and barked the command to clear a path for them. Eyes were on him again, feeding a ravenous desire to be marveled at, as he pulled his sword on living armor almost twice his size. 

Demonstrating footwork and simple strikes would have been wasted on such an opponent. He went straight for the jugular. Before long, the monster's parrying grew more and more frantic, and he drove the two-ton menace back with each slash and jab of his obsidian blade. He could feel the training sword chip and scratch with every strike, screeching and groaning under the force of his jabs. No longer could the Darknut keep up. Ghirahim was hitting armor, leaving scratches and dents, kicking at joints, and piercing through gaps. Piercing, piercing, carving, something soft, something-

An ethereal cry came from an otherwise empty helmet, and with a puff of smoke, the commander’s arm fell to the ground with a hollow thud and rattle.

Ghirahim paused. His sword faded from his hand in diamonds. The whole training field was silent, then, for a moment, until some began to cheer in morbid delight, others whispered among one another. His defeated opponent merely held his arm in his remaining hand, somewhat dejectedly trying to reattach it but failing to do so. 

An example was set, he supposed. His place in the hierarchy was justified and reinforced. Yet, he couldn’t find any satisfaction in it. How strange. Wanton violence never failed to invigorate him, yet this time, he just felt more bored than he did before. So, he turned, offhandedly gesturing for a Poe on the sidelines to tend to the duelist’s injury, though he didn’t bother to look behind him to check if they did. With his departure, their little arena quickly dispersed, and the training field was back in formation like he’d never disrupted it.

Once again he returned to the halls, staring out the ceiling-length windows to keep an eye on the little specks of soldiers from afar. How dreadful it was, to have nothing to occupy oneself with! Ghirahim sighed, seating himself on the windowsill. He gazed out over the mansion’s property, though he registered very little of what he saw. It was simply staring for the sake of staring, passing images through a blank mind. The outside world began to tire him as the first drops of rain tapped on the window before him, gently ushering him out of a self-inflicted trance. He perked up and instead turned his attention back to the hallway, where his eyes landed on a painting he could swear wasn’t there a day or two earlier. It bore a purple frame, matte and dark as if absorbing every bit of light and obliterating it for the crime of taking away from the figure depicted inside. Surrounded by a haze of swirling violets was a young woman, perhaps sixteen-to-nineteen years of age (though, mortal lifespans always puzzled him). She looked eerily familiar, now that he paid attention to it. In some ways, she reminded him of the Spirit Maiden and every incarnation before her, but some things were drastically different. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her eyes held fatigue and sorrow no frightfully optimistic Zelda he’d known could ever carry. Whoever she was, her painter held a fondness for her. Having been at the other end of the easel, he knew how the Lorian Sorcerer could fuss over her models, how she’d preen their hair and scold any slouch. The tired yet endeared smile Ghirahim had carried then, was reflected on this girl, too, and it had been immortalized affectionately on the canvas.

Yuga. Perhaps she was up for company today. With some luck, he’d get another portrait or two out of it. The atelier wasn’t far. He hopped down from his seat and winked out of view, leaving that strange, purple girl in her own company.

Ghirahim arrived at the painter’s workshop to find it unoccupied. He supposed with a sigh that the Demon King must have been keeping her busy. That left him with more time to waste than he’d care for. Well, there wasn’t any harm in looking around. He’d known Yuga’s atelier back at Gerudo Palace, but he hadn’t yet displayed himself lavishly in this one, surprisingly enough. Much to his amusement, he found it laid out as a near-carbon copy of her other atelier. There was a wooden cabinet, though a touch smaller, with little labeled drawers that held her countless pigments. The place was a mess of props, curtains, and sketches, though most were covered to protect them from the sun, should it peek into the room. For this atelier was a bright place. Whereas the atelier at Gerudo Palace was more shrouded in darkness, keeping out the merciless desert heat, this room faced the West with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, fashioned with rose mosaics at their pinnacles. It was certainly lived in — right at her little balcony, Yuga put up a chair, where a piece of parchment and a handful of oil pastels left behind the hints of an idyllic spare time picture. This must have been where she’d sit to paint the sunset, Ghirahim figured.

All very fascinating, to poke around somebody’s business while they’re not present, but he’d much rather speak with the person than consult with images he’d conjure of her in his mind. He turned back to the center of the room, where bright, red-and-gold curtains hid away an easel that stood before a podium. Making his way over, he found a canvas, perhaps an arm’s length, covered by a white sheet. His eye fell on the podium first, finding it set up with a luxurious embroidered curtain for a backdrop, and a small still-life next to a similarly concealed piece of furniture. 

Someone had been posing there. An initial spark of annoyance lit in him when he realized there were only a few candidates for her to paint, and that it hadn’t been him. Before he could decide which option ticked him off more, his eye fell on a collection of sketches that had been pinned to the wall beside him. The sight of a sharp, aquiline nose, and a well-groomed beard instantly made him whip around and grip the edge of the sheet. Something in him fumed and thrummed. Whether it was with rage, jealousy, or fear, he could hardly distinguish, but it drowned out any polite hesitation that kept him from peeping and forced his hand to rip the covering clean off.

White fabric shook, billowed, and fluttered in the air as if frozen there, before it flopped lifelessly to the ground, dropping from an enraged fist that lost its strength. Ghirahim’s core sank at what he saw on that canvas.

The room was silent, save for the insistent pattering of rain on the windows, but Ghirahim was deaf to it all. Captured in paint was an image of his Master. Ganondorf was splayed comfortably on the scene on the podium, boots casually kicked off on the ground, but his powerful form still inspired grandeur. Yet, there was an intimacy to it. His provocative smirk and the subtle spread of his legs were inviting. The way his undershirt flared open at the chest suggested that the invitation had been accepted more than once. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the subtle scarring between calloused fingers, and the shimmer of his jewelry… Such details would have been lost by any who hadn’t been able to see him up close — to touch him — yet here they were, depicted flawlessly. 

What shattered within him wasn’t mere childish jealousy. The whole foundation of his being began to crack and wobble. He’d wasted too much time. Nights he spent in the arms of a stranger should have been spent where he belonged. An ungrateful, frivolous wretch he’d been for dancing around his purpose. His habit, his curse, to repeat the same mistakes had cost him dearly. Now, the one he’d devoted himself to… No, who owned him, had chosen the company of someone else. 

Listlessly, Ghirahim hung the sheet back over the painting, not caring if it was affixed properly or not. He could bear to look at it no longer, and so he turned from it. 

His feet dragged him back to the window, drawn by the trails of raindrops racing down the glass. Their little rivers split and joined endlessly, rearranging themselves at the mercy of the deluge. Such a horrid little reminder of how his fate had been toyed with! One little droplet had gotten in his way, and now he’d veered off course. Dropping himself into whatever seat found itself below him, he peered out into the distance, drowning his sorrows in the roaring sounds of the rain. The vines and thorns that crept their way up to the window were beaten in the downpour, removing them from their last shreds of vibrant life. How gray that garden looked without its petals.

When Yuga returned she encountered him lying on the couch across his easel. It was covered by a sheet, presumably to protect it from dust, but Ghirahim knew it was the very same one from the painting. It smelled just like their King. He’d even found one of his hairs caught on the thin white fabric. He draped himself on there, sleek white and glittering, yet desolate as a discarded bridal veil, face tucked into the nook of his elbow. Peering past his lashes, he found Yuga looking quite peeved. He could only guess the painter saw how the cloth covering her painting had been moved, and now knew her secret was out.

“I see you’ve taken the liberty of letting yourselves into my private affairs,” Yuga said with a tilt of her hips and her arms crossed.

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. “Private affairs,” he mocked. “I am his Blade, Yuga. An extension of his being. There is nothing ‘private’ you can have with him, without my involvement.”

Yuga scoffed as if it was a bluff. Ghirahim’s eye twitched subtly behind the curtain of his bangs. It never should have been a bluff; yet in this world, it was. The Lorian spoke. “Is that so,” she sneered, hands at her sides. “Then what’s that sulking on my set for? Surely you didn’t discover anything new.”

Such a despicably smug attitude! He supposed that when walking into the lion’s den, he needed some way to get the upper hand. Oh, yes; he could think of a thing or two that could sweep her feet out from under her. “What is he to you? You glue yourself to him as if you have any right to belong there. If you think Master is taking applications for pets, you’d be sorely mistaken.”

Her lip twitched in annoyance, but her poise remained firm. “Ganondorf is my Muse. That is all you are entitled to know.”

A non-answer, but he’d gotten under her skin. To the sorcerer, just about anybody with a pretty enough face around these parts was a Muse. The Demon King’s army just so happened to be a lush garden of supernatural and powerful beauty, ripe for the picking. At least, that was the picture he’d gotten of her. To be at the receiving end of her curt, blunt responses meant he was getting close to snapping her flimsy patience.

After glaring him down for another few seconds, her fiery gaze fizzled out into bitter ash. She had the clear intent of making some jabs of her own. “Zant. What did you do to him?”

Ghirahim jerked his head up with a scowl. With just the uttering of his name, Yuga just had to remind him of what he managed to stave off the past few days. He’d banished any thought of the Twili, locked them away, and swallowed the key. Now, with scorched brown eyes squinting so fiercely at him, he could feel that blasted key crawling its way back up his throat. “To him?” he hissed. “How presumptuous of you. I’ll have you know I long decided to let that distraction slide. I’ve nothing to do with whatever he’s moaning about.”

Yuga bit back instantly. “Don’t feign ignorance on me now, boy! I send you to go talk with him, and all of a sudden, we don't see hide or hair of him for days on end? You did something,” she spat, accusing a manicured finger at him and staring him down. When he refused to answer, she clicked her tongue. “… Go on! You’ve already pried into my business, so in turn, I shall pry into yours. Tell me!”

He shifted uneasily in his seat in response. Chin propped on his hand, he turned his gaze out the window. “I fail to see how his fickle mental state is my problem.”

His deflection was met with shrill, bird-like laughter. “That’s rich!” Yuga exclaimed. “For months, you’re all over each other, and suddenly, he’s no longer your problem?”

The gray outside world was doing absolutely nothing to distract him. Again he shifted, pulling his knee in to tuck himself closer to the armrest. Such a reminder was unwelcome, and he took it as more of an accusation of his negligence to his duty, than any perceived slights to the Twili. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, hiding himself from her gaze with his hair. 

Wood creaked, the sound of feet walking up on the podium. Yuga’s voice mellowed some, but behind that restrained softness, anger still lurked. “… Is that what this is? Did you break up?”

“There was nothing to break up,” Ghirahim snapped back through gritted teeth.

Yuga groaned, tapping her foot on the floorboards before making her way over to him. For just a moment, he peeped at her through the gaps in his hair, but the unrelenting, gargoyle-esque snarl quickly made him reconsider. She ran her hand down her face in exasperation, dramatically yet with great care not to smudge her make-up. “I may be the last person in the world to be saying this, but… Ghirahim, you can’t simply up and walk away. You know how he is!”

He wanted to struggle, to object to her accusations, but he found no words coming out. And even if he had any, they’d have no room to squeeze between her ravings. She dropped down on the couch next to him and sneered her plummy little ultimatum. “There are two options here. Either you reel him in, or you let him swim. All this leading him on is just cruel.”

“Cruel!?” To think he cared about such a thing! It was laughable. He couldn’t decide whether the hilarity lied in the accusation with him as its receiver, or for the accusant to be Yuga, of all people. Nevertheless, he felt eager to shed himself of blame. It sloughed around him like shedding skin, and he wanted rid of it. He turned to her with a frown. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear to him. We are high-ranking commanders. That Zant wishes to fall apart over juvenile pass-time has nothing to do with my decision to-“

“You are a commander in this army, indeed. You are also an adult,” Yuga hissed with a jab at his collarbone. “Now how about you act the part, and go on over to him to settle this? Without Zant, our forces will suffer. His feebleness gets him killed, and it would be your fault.”

Such insults he would not take! Ghirahim smacked the hand at his chest away from him with the air of dismissing an insect. Blame still stuck to him, sewn back on by bony hands with something almost unprecedented. Guilt. 

The quarreling pair stayed locked in an exchanged scowl, and though it hurt his pride, he was the first to break away. To argue with her was a pointless affair, especially when their points of view came from such different worlds. He swept his cape around his shoulder and rose from the couch, offering Yuga nothing more than a curt nod to announce his departure.

Nevertheless, she had one more sneer to give before he left. “The nerve you have to stick your nose in my business when your own affairs are in such a state… Out of my workshop! I’m fed up with you, Demon Lord.”

She didn’t even have to ask. For once, he opted to leave a room through the door, if only for the chance to slam it behind him.

—

Once again, he found himself passing through the hallways of the Temple. Normally, he was perfectly capable of keeping petty ponderings at bay. Those times, though, he’d at least had a distraction. With nothing but the foggy, looping interiors of Cia’s mansion to occupy him, his mind circled as much as the tiles below him. 

Yuga was right in that the mansion had seen very little of the Lord of Shadows since that day. From his lingering in the hallways, Ghirahim hadn’t seen Zant leave even once. The only sign of life coming from that decrepit room was an occasional servant that either came to deliver or retrieve a stack of documents, exchanged with a pallid hand slipping through a crack in the door. 

It was puzzling. Ghirahim expected him to sulk, certainly, after his unspoken rejection. But alongside Zant’s habits of holing himself up, he’d also expected his token sounds of wailing, in torment of the ghosts of nightly visitors. Yet, there had been nothing but silence. He couldn’t imagine him dreaming quietly in a state of tantrum. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all. 

The thought alone made him grit his teeth. Zant hadn’t eaten — certainly, the man’s reptilian appetite wouldn’t kill him with a few days’ break — Zant hadn’t slept. He was wasting away in that room, interrupting his self-pitying only to pour over his duties. And anyone aware of it had the gall to blame him for it. Undoubtedly including Zant himself. It was infuriating. It was sickening. It left a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow and an icy pit in his core that wouldn’t thaw, no matter how much he paced there in an effort to summon enough burning rage to melt it all away. 

Of course he wasn’t responsible for this. All this time, Zant had ignored the realities of the one he’d gotten so charmed with, forgotten that it could only ever be temporary. Ghirahim wasn’t his to take, for he belonged to another. Certainly, the Twili had tried. He’d coaxed him into unfamiliar waters, luring him to plunge into the depths with him until their affection alone could warm that strange, cold abyss. But no matter how he’d toyed with such distractions, and how he’d snagged him, the leash of destiny kept tugging firmly at his throat. And he adored that leash, he’d worship it and let it drag him back to kingly hands even if it wore down to a single thread. He’d made a promise to Demise, then, an oath older than the lands themselves. 

Yet his feet took him elsewhere. While dwelling in his mind, he’d kept walking and ended up at the end of the hallway leading straight to the lieutenants’ chambers.

He had almost forgotten. His collar was fitted with two leads.

With separate ends tugging at him at once, Ghirahim was forced to weigh his options.  His instinct drew him to the obvious and forced him paces back. He knew who was meant to hold him, who was Demise’s worthy successor. Ganondorf had, in his own words, ‘spoiled’ him. The shreds of affection he’d given him were precious, unprecedented in their fondness. This Demon King was kind, in his own way, but no matter how much he indulged those needs for closeness, he’d denied his greatest need of all. He would not wield him. Perhaps when that incarnation had split his power off for his servant, that with it went the part that wanted him. 

Ghirahim could deny it no longer. It was all too meager compared to what Zant had showered him with. For every minute Ganondorf spent with him, the Twili had given him hours. Zant threw himself at him with blind trust time and time again. Doing so once would have been stupidity, but to repeat it could only mean a desperate cry for affection. Where one man had cast him aside in a wooden box, the other grabbed hold of him fiercely and eagerly, only to let go if all his fingers were amputated. With all sensibilities, Zant could have been a simple, power-hungry lunatic, eager to get his hands on a legendary blade. Yet, somewhere, he indulged in the thought that Din had smiled upon him for once, and Destiny had meant for him to be wielded by hands that loved him just as rambunctiously as he would love them.

They were mere fantasies, wishful thinking, and he felt thunder rumbling in him for the blasphemy of it all. But, oh, Hell’s Realms. Zant was a mortal man, after all. Ghirahim decided he could afford to pretend a little longer.

Yet, as he stood before the doors, he couldn’t think of how to proceed. Was he to knock? Call out for him and await his response? It wasn’t that he was afraid, but he was in haste. Every second he’d spend dawdling at this door made the risk he’d turn and run greater. Childishly, shamefully, he was clutching the feeling that raced in his core, of how he desired to see him and test what mortal affection meant. He didn’t know how long he could stave off the sense of duty he barred away, for it already started growling in the back of his mind. Were he to announce his arrival, he saw a baffling chance that Zant would reject him. If there was anything he would not do, it was beg. 

He fell into old habits as a result. He snipped his fingers and appeared at the other side of the door.

Frankly, the door should have been a hint. Unlike the other lieutenants’ chambers, this one had been bare, lacking in the personal touch Cia had given to each of her underlings. It suddenly struck Ghirahim that before this, Zant had never been to Cia’s dwelling. She’d revived him, certainly, but had let him reign his terror in the Twilight Realm only. There hadn’t been a need for him here, and thus, no chambers. The Usurper King was staying in a spare.

The inside was pitch dark. Thick curtains were nailed to the walls where windows must have hidden behind. Not a speck of light entered from the outside — Rather, the only light seemed to come from Zant himself. A dim glow of burned gold shed light on the little furnishing he had, their contents spilled on the floors. Darkness ruled so thoroughly here, it was almost thick enough to taste, bitter and dry like a furnace fire. 

It was the sound that alerted him to the shape draped on the bed. A droning hum blared from it, but through the noise, he could hear breathing, raspy and soft. The room was as viciously rejecting him as he rejected it, kept only at bay by the wafts of teeming Twilight radiating out from him. He did not belong here. The Temple was making it known.

Ghirahim’s presence hadn’t been noticed yet. How could he have been? So quiet and small was he amid this brewing storm of shadow. He bit through the vertigo and spoke. “Zant.”

The breathing stopped with a gasp. Zant’s figure stirred, shifted, and rolled over to push himself upright. Slowly, and heavily, as if rising from water, he uncurled his spine bit by bit to sit with a hunch. Glowing eyes turned to him, surfacing from a pure black silhouette. “Entering without my permission,” Zant replied, his voice an eerie calm. “Have you come to berate me again?”

If he had prepared any words in his mind prior to facing him, he couldn’t recall them now. But what he could remember was confusion, a feeling that drifted in him like a passing ship every minute they spent together. An idle curiosity about Zant’s infatuation with him became all the more troubling when he realized it became mutual. He knew attraction, he knew lust, he knew devotion. The intricacies of mortal attachment were entertaining to him from afar, how the Twili could amuse and comfort himself with something more fleeting than the beat of a wing. But he was never prepared for it to be infectious. Berate him, no. Perhaps it would be cathartic in the heat of the moment, but it would get him no further. He wanted answers, so perhaps he could know what to do with the guilt that ate at him. If he could do anything at all. 

“What do you want from me?”

It was a laughably simple question. A stupid one — not in its simplicity, but in how it laid him bare. It bared every card he had, boldly displaying his insecurity. He knew what Zant wanted. He simply wanted to hear him say it, so in the meantime, he could think whether he could squeeze his way out of what reciprocation would ask of him. 

Zant saw through him at first glance. A sullen laugh shivered its way out of him. “You have left me here to rot this long, and this is how you come to greet me?” 

He froze where he stood. Thinking back on the times he’d clicked his tongue, curled his lip, or frowned at him, he wondered where his past self had summoned all that nerve from. Looking at the gaunt, shadowy shape, drowning amidst the expanse of his flowing robes, he couldn’t think of a single contort. 

His silence was met with a softening gaze. “… It’s strange, Ghirahim. I’ve mulled over it for days, growing bitter ever still. I thought I would be angry with you, should you come knocking at my door, but…” Zant’s voice hitched and shook, tripping its way past a lump that matched his own. “Now that you’re here, I can only feel glad to see you again.”

Just like that, he was moving again. He expected to feel the leash acutely, but something else pushed him forward. Whatever force propelled him forward was an indulgent one. Drawing ever closer, the Twilight parted for him, lifting the dark on the silhouette of his Twili. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. He noticed it when first entering, but thought it only a trick of the light. Zant reached out for him, taking his hand to stroke his palm with his thumb, but no amount of cooing and fondling could distract him from what froze him in cold horror. 

An unfamiliar asymmetry drew his gaze. At the second fin from the tip, his right ear had been cropped down.

Eyes pried wide open, and mouth slightly agape, Ghirahim sat next to him. Not merely as a plea for intimacy, but because his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. In an instant, he remembered. The blade to his ear, the pain of shame far greater than that of steel carving through false cartilage. How a hand big enough to engulf his entire head then reached out, and rubbed at the fresh, bleeding injury almost affectionately, as if the pads of His massive fingers might cauterize the wound. He remembered hoping that they never would, that he could keep bleeding ichor into His hands forever and stain Him deep enough to rival midnight’s black. 

But most of all, he remembered the fear.

Zant, too, would have had to conquer that alone. He couldn’t explain the pit that thought left in his core.

The runes on his forehead glowed softly, blinking with the rhythm of the circles Zant rubbed into his gloves. Zant didn’t meet the eyes that stared at him with such cold desperation but spoke nonetheless, his voice deep and dusty like one that would haunt a crypt. “You have been darkening my doors for days, Ghirahim. Do not look surprised. No shadow can be cast near me without me knowing about it. Yet, all this time, you avoided entering. What changed?”

Now, Zant’s eyes flitted up to look at him and they wouldn’t release him. Ghirahim steeled his nerves against the sorrow that shook him just earlier. “What changed is that I’ve figured out the source of my confusion. You haven’t answered my question.”

It was bold to demand things from him, bold enough to offend him. Zant released him from his gaze again, and the hold on his hand loosened. “Neither have you mine, not directly. We are talking in circles. I don’t care to be the first to listen.”

He fought against the weight on his shoulders, tried to convince himself it wasn’t guilt, and lost. Once again, he left a debt unpaid, an imbalance in their dynamic. He’d forgotten too quickly about how Zant offered to right his own wrongs mere days before. The least he could do was acknowledge it. “… I’ve hurt you.”

“You have,” Zant stated gravely before he could even fully finish speaking. “You’ve toyed with me, led me to great heights only to push me off of them. But you were not the first, and to hope for you to be the last would be wishful thinking.”

It was Ghirahim’s turn to grasp his hands. Were he to let Zant retreat further, he would lose the thin threads he had left to hold on to. If anything, he wanted to chase his curiosity, though he didn’t dare to think of where it would lead him. “I know, and I have hurt you, which is exactly what vexes me so. Everything we’ve done and said is against my nature as a sword, and you know this as well as I do.” He paused for a moment, trying to gauge Zant’s reaction, but found his face hollow of intent. “Yet, you continue to pester me, even if it hurts you so, and I can no longer trust your intentions. I’ve come to you today because I need answers.”

Zant let out a short laugh, teetering on the edge of scornful and intrigued. “Answers, hm… And this is your way of getting them? To barge into my room, pout with confession, and ask for forgiveness?” He shook his head, lowering their hands into his lap. “I don’t think you know how. Not from mortal men like me.”

Ghirahim narrowed his lips into a thin line. If he could not appeal to him in this way, in the closest approximation of a grovel he could manage, he had nothing. He was at a loss for words. 

Zant took advantage of his silence. “I’m sure you think I want an apology. I do not. Frankly, apologies often serve much more to ease the conscience of the guilty, than to soothe the one who’d been wronged. I’m led to believe that you are such a person too, Ghirahim.” He smiled at him, but not from kindness. It was a dreary smile much like the one Ganondorf had shown him, of fondness against one’s best judgment. “I will not give you that relief just yet. You have not earned it. What I want, is the truth.” 

Again Zant dominated the clasping of their hands, cradling his fingers in his before raising them to his chest. Zant’s brows furrowed, his face leaned closer to his, and he felt compelled to follow. “Ghirahim, what are we?”

His question was almost timid, like he feared whatever the outcome might have been. Ghirahim found himself in the exact same spot. What were they? Was Zant not the one to have asked him for their first kiss? Was it not Zant who came knocking on his door to drag him off to whatever corner of Hyrule he desired to see? Did he not propose an ‘anniversary’, mark him with a gift, and attempt to court him mere days before? 

Ghirahim had humoured him for all but one. He couldn’t fathom why he had to be the one to put words to them. “What do you think?”

Zant frowned, squeezing his hands insistently. “No. You will not appease me so easily. I ask you for your idea of this relationship. I want to know how you view us, without my words to shape your thoughts.”

Ghirahim blinked up at him. The thoughts Zant was asking for were hardly in a presentable state. Frankly, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t that he was inexperienced; such a conclusion was silly. He’d known many flings and a handful of trusted companions, but neither bond approached what Zant had dragged him into. The bond most natural to him had been that of Master and Servant, and it was the only one near the intimacy they shared. At least, near the intimacy he yearned for in such a role. For this, there had been no equal, not once in his millennia of being. Few had dared to come close to him, and nothing had dared to do so unscathed. Zant, similarly, had not escaped unharmed, but he was the first to come crawling back. He wondered what word he could borrow. “… We are lovers, no?”

It was an innocent enough word, but Zant latched onto it like it’d been wreathed in gold. “Lovers?” He teased with it, but beyond that playful surprise, something of far greater gravity reared its head. “Do you love me, then?”

It was idiotic how the question almost startled him. Despite placing the bait himself, he was cornered by it nonetheless. The only love he knew now was the one for his Master, that lulled him into comforting subservience, yet drove him to strive for greatness. The love he knew could reduce the world to ashes. It was dedication, it was relinquishing his every will to the hands of the one who wielded him, even if he shattered in His palm.

Zant sought something else. Something without fear, without dominion. He had to, for he had rejected every attempt at such a dynamic. For mortals, love was an illogical force, at least in his eyes. It was a fragile, temporary thing, that made the flesh-born impulsive and complacent. A sensation so fickle, with no goal but to claim a person for one’s own in such a brief lifetime, seemed enough to risk one’s life for. As he sat there, his hands cradled to a beating heart, the thought of it felt oddly charming, as pathetic as it sounded. Perhaps the stupidity Zant forced him into, the desire for attention he’d awakened in him, came close. “I… I suppose I do.”

Big, amber eyes blinked at him. Zant swallowed, his voice low and hoarse as he pleaded. “Then say it.”

Ghirahim paused. “Zant, I…” 

I don’t know if I can, said the voice in his mind, but his lips did not move to say the words. Instead, something else surged forward, bursting free from whatever fissure he’d locked it in after it’d gnawed itself free from its chains. So forcefully it had wedged loose from him, yet the words came out so quietly, so softly, like a peck on the cheek. “I love you.”

Zant reacted to the words as if he’d been branded by hot iron. He forced a shaky breath into his chest, one that stiffened his body and straightened his back. That once pallid face turned red. “Again,” he stammered. “Please.”

The piercing look in Zant’s eyes, how his pulse hammered in his chest and his ears twitched and fluttered, told Ghirahim he made a promise he didn’t know he could keep. But whatever his mind could not comprehend, a little dagger within him took to with joy. Zant loved him, it was a fact as true as the sky was blue, yet he understood nothing of how to reciprocate. It was an alien concept to him, the damning implications of it dangling above his head, but shrouded in the dark as he was, he could not see its shadow. He couldn’t put into words what he felt if he tried. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but perhaps he could learn. He was struck by how he wanted to learn, how simply saying the words bloomed so warmly in his chest. “…I… I love you,” he obliged, spoken almost like a question.

His Twili loomed closer now, enough for the feverish heat from his cheeks to hover over his cool skin. Timid hands found his face, ghosting their fingertips over his jaw. Zant laughed shakily, blinking away the dampness of his eyes. Tears speckled with orange and blue as they ran down his face. Whatever composure the Twili had mustered was now shattering. Such vulnerability normally would make Ghirahim see red, but now, all he wanted was to cradle it in his hands. Zant’s voice escaped him, as if he’d trapped it but decided to let it slip through the bars. 

“Again,” he whispered, quivering and squeezing his hands, eyes filled with hunger. “I beg of you,” cracked free under hushed breath.

Whoever steered his body now, Ghirahim did not know him. He was a stranger in his own skin. His hands sought out the other man, one laying on his shoulder and the other arriving to stroke his face. The pads of his gloves ran past the faded grooves of his scarring, testing the waters of the strange bits of tenderness Zant had shown him many times before. 

“I lo-“

He was interrupted by the sudden presence of lips against his own. Though he could not finish uttering the words, their meaning still carried into the breath passing between them. Before he knew it, he’d thrown his arms around his neck and tumbled the pair backward into the flowing mass of robes and blankets. Pressed so firmly against him, he could feel every bone that jutted from his skin and taste the blood that dribbled from chapped lips. By Demise, he’d ruined him. The eager lust that had motivated him before faded in an instant, instead overtaken by the urge to apologetically kiss the tears off his cheek.

Grey, withered hands found their way around him, digging their digits into the fabric of his cloak. Zant took his distraction as an opportunity to speak, a bittersweet smile gracing his face. “My answer to you, Ghirahim? I return to you, time and time again because I adore you. To rip you from me now would be to tear out the blade wedged into me, and spill out everything that keeps me breathing.”

A whimper got stuck in his throat, but his hand found his face before it found his ear, stroking a finger past his earring. “You’ve hurt me, antagonized me… I wish to be close to you, and if doing so burns me, then I will wear those blisters with pride. By the Gods, Ghirahim — those words, I’ve wanted someone to say them to me in my entire life, more than anything. I could not be happier that it’s you.”

Ghirahim sought the words to respond, but he buckled before he could find them, instead falling back into their embrace. It was desperate. Pitiful, almost. And he was thankful for it, for falling back into their lip-lock conveyed his affection far better than any words could. Any more thinking, and he might have come to the conclusion that he’d been wrong, that entangling himself further with this man was a mistake. The second he left this room, there was a real possibility he could. But for now, he fluttered his eyes shut, and let the heat this lunatic sparked in him take over.

The rest of that day was spent in timid togetherness, in prodding at the edge of boundaries to see what stuck. Neither was certain now how to proceed, having said words they could not return but feeling mutually strange after the distance they’d been forced into. No measure of distance could prevent Ghirahim from preening his newly-found ‘lover’ to a more presentable state, though. Greasy hair, dirty nails, and an unwashed face were distasteful enough for a King, but completely unacceptable for anyone wishing to associate with the Demon Lord. Ghirahim had been no stranger to taking care of him the past months, but now, every little touch felt much more deliberate. Slowly, but surely, the pale creature perked up, even if short-lived. A lack of sleep pulled him away from the dining table before the fussiest of their co-lieutenants could even think to inquire about the events that’d taken place, and they were back in the hall to their chambers. 

As they arrived at the doorway, Ghirahim froze. The second that door closed, the illusion could fade. So he grabbed his wrist and prevented him from entry. 

“Zant,” he whispered, meeting the eyes that warmly looked down at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

——

Days, weeks passed, with the Demon King in hiding while he experimented with his new Power. The other King, in his own right, similarly had not sat still. With the improvement of his health came Zant’s return to the library, and Ghirahim had skillfully ignored whatever squeaky little voice in the back of his mind told him to mind his business. The first aftermath of such nosiness showed itself that very day when Zant came to him wearing far more layers than usual and coaxed him into yet another ‘expedition’.

Hands joined, shadows whispered, and Ghirahim quickly squinted from the blinding white that overtook his senses. The pair found themselves at the top of a hill in the Lanayru region, overlooking an expanse of ice and snow. 

Ghirahim tucked his arms to his chest, hiding them from the cold under his cloak. “I must say, Zant. It did not take you very long to drag me into your nonsense again.”

Zant laughed, the sound muffled by his thick, woolen scarf. “I have a feeling you will have very few complaints about this particular outing.”

“Will I now?” He chuckled, looking down into the valley below. A vast, frozen lake lay at its very bottom, once fed by waterfalls from the cliffsides all around them. In the winter, it had to make do with the occasional icy trickle. They’d been here before, but Zant had been the last one to see it frozen. He’d taken them to Lake Hylia. “The choice of location already puzzles me. Sending us directly into enemy territory is a bold choice.”

“On the contrary,” Zant said, taking a crunchy step forward into the snow. “Most of the Zora migrate upstream to a seasonal town in Eldin this time of year, or so I’ve heard.”

“Right,” Ghirahim hummed, stepping after him. “Something tells me that whatever you’ve got planned, anyone that’s still lingering will want to give the place a wide berth either way.”

A mischievous little giggle escaped the Twili, then, and he turned to look at him. “So you’re going to humour me?”

“Have I any other choice?”

“There are always choices, Ghirahim-ili. I’m merely glad mine has landed in your favor today.”

Ghirahim shook his head in a fondly feigned annoyance, before joining by his side and patting his arm. “Go ahead and show me your devious little plans, then, Twilight King.”

“Very well,” Zant smiled, reaching into his sleeve to retrieve a grimoire… Or, well, a leather-bound mess of bookmarks and notes that served as one, at least. “I’ve narrowed down the summoning circle for a beast I expect to be quite useful in guarding the Desert Palace. I was hoping you could assist me in the ritual.”

Ghirahim hummed, eyes darting between the book and the valley. “I see. And we’re doing this at Lake Hylia… Why, exactly?”

“Well, the ice, I reckon, will make for a good canvas to scratch the sigils into. Furthermore, it is a sand-dwelling creature, so the cold will save us the trouble of pacifying it ourselves.”

Ghirahim pursed his lips in thought.“… Won’t the cold kill it, then?”

A little hoot escaped him. “Not if we transport it to the Desert post-haste, it won’t,” Zant turned to him, wearing a toothy smile.

Ghirahim blinked at him. Realization hit, and his face twisted into a grimacing grin. “So that’s why you brought me along, hmm,” he inquired, digging his nails into his arm in emphasis. “To be your packing mule?”

“Your words, not mine, Yima Dinifen. Let me show you the sigils. We ought to finish up before noon,” he chimed, hiding his smirk behind his scarf while his clammy fingers flipped through the pages. Ghirahim merely growled, begrudgingly looking past his shoulder to peer at the pages. Clearly, it took the mad scholar a few tries to get the sigil down perfectly, as the ink smudges and wobbly scratches from the previous pages bled into the one he showed him… But on a technical field, it was a flawless circle.

Ghirahim hummed, peering intently at the image to burn it into his mind. “Down to the coordinates, I take it?”

“Verily,” Zant nodded stately.

The sigil now memorized, Ghirahim withdrew from him, playfully patting his shoulder. “Then what’s keeping us?” 

With a head start, Ghirahim took off from the top of the hill and leaped down. His heels dug into the snow, kicking up sprays of suddy snow behind him as he slid his way down the incline. His cape noisily whipped and billowed in the wind in his descent, soon joined by the fluttering sounds of Zant’s array of robes beside him. The Twili caught up to him quickly, soaring a ways above the ground but leaving a powdery trail below him nonetheless. It seemed the so-masterful mage did not feel confident enough in the physics of winter to dare to plant his feet in the snow just yet, Ghirahim noted to himself in amusement.

When the hill’s incline got less and less steep, so too did Ghirahim’s descent lose momentum, and he wasn’t fond of losing any ‘race’, even if in this case, he was the only participant aware of it. And so, with a bracing of his knees and flitting his eyes to his companion to gauge his distance, he jumped for him. Grasping his sleeve tightly and ignoring the cry of alarm, he snapped his fingers, and in a flurry of diamonds, sent the both of them to the center of the lake.

Ghirahim dug his heels firmly in the ice upon reappearing, sending both of them spinning in place with a cackle. Zant’s flying speed only then began to peter out. Now slowing steadily, Zant’s hand slipped out his sleeve to grasp onto his, joining him in mischievous laughter as his feet landed on the ice, and his wild spins slacked to an idle twirl around him.

“Very funny, Ghirahim,” Zant teased while he gained his footing. “I take it you will treat the rest of this duty with the same utmost gravity?”

Ghirahim clicked his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Look,” he gestured to the ice, where the edges of Zant’s brass slippers scratched into the surface. “There’s your central circle. The first component is complete!”

Zant looked down, letting out an astonished huff as he saw what he’d done. “Why! Indeed, there’s the scope. I’d like it to be a little neater, but… I can give it a once-over.”

Another surprised hoot rang from the sorcerer as Ghirahim hopped up where he stood, only for black blades to manifest under his soles and land him in the trajectory of the circles. “What say you,” the sword spirit hummed as he traced over the ‘scope’, as Zant called it, and tightened its contour, “I take care of the broader lines, and you get to scratching the runes, hmm?”

Zant quickly stepped out of the way to let Ghirahim continue his round, looking down at the circles he traced in silent wonder. “… You truly are more magically inclined than you let show, aren’t you?”

Ghirahim simply hummed, shrugged, and blinked away from his finished circle, only to reappear a dozen yards over to trace in the next.

Metal and ice hissed and sang together under the force of his blades. Tight trails carved into the ice, circles, lines, ovals, and outlines, dusted with sparkling snow and freshly shaved bits of frost that scattered under his makeshift skates. The sigil was rather complex, not to mention having to scale it up quite a bit from the pocket-sized preview he was shown. He’d done the math — it was a beast of 65 meters long, and approximately fourteen meters in width, should Zant’s bestiary be believed — with some wiggle room, taking into account the mass of the creature — think, think, at that size… Yes, the outer circle would have to be 47.12 meters in circumference, at the very least. A grin stretched across his face. How long it’d been since he last indulged in such arcane puzzles! Wind soared past his false skin, tousling his hair and cracking the cosmetics on his lips with their frosty cold. He lowered himself, his fingers brushing past the ice as he took a harsh turn. The blades on his feet carved yet another circle for him, painting the frozen lake around it in freshly shaved frost. He slid to a halt, skates lodged in old tracks, and gauged his progress. Right there, another small circle was needed. He could jump there if he wanted to! If he tried! 

He smiled enough to make his nose crinkle. Moving across the ice like a heron taking off in flight, he pushed himself forward, gliding past the grooves in the ice, and leaped —

Skates slammed back into the ice, carving harsh lines, but he stuck the landing. He would have retained his balance with perfect elegance, did not a harsh voice interrupt his whimsy.

“Quit showing off and focus,” Zant barked, pointedly focusing harder on his little grimoire as the tip of his sword scratched runes into his tracks. “I’m not even looking!”

“Oh, but you are looking, and you love it,” Ghirahim chimed in response, before with a jerk of his arms righting himself in his course again. Before he knew it, he’d rounded yet another circle and came back around to playfully poke Zant on the back. “You said it yourself, you grouch. You adore me. So humour my little tricks, lest I grow bored with you!”

“Fine! I need to see how the circle is coming along, either way,” Zant growled, carving the last strokes of his rune. Knees bent in his bracing and straightened back out to launch him into a jump. Several feet in the air, he came to a hovering halt, shivering momentarily in the cold of the open winter breeze. Certainly, the fool could pretend to be all business, but Ghirahim knew that the eyes behind that helmet trailed him before they watched his pattern. And so, he soared, he jumped, and he spun, laughing if only for the joy of moving his body with such grace. His hands trailed up his arms as he slid across the ice, dismissing his cape into a diamond trail after him. Now unimpeded, his harmonious movements seemed infectious. Wherever he’d finish his sketches, Zant would swoop down behind him, painting the finishing touches onto the ice. They worked in tandem, in secret joy. Glances were playfully stolen across the ice, quick but never fleeting. He’d thoroughly captured the Twili’s attention, forcing him into his company one way or the other. If it weren’t for the sight of his graceful form sliding past him, it would be his laugh or the sounds of his skates, or the occasional brush of his hand past his robes. And every time Zant’s front would break, splitting his stern, grey lips into a fond smile. 

Taken to the skies again, an astonished grunt sounded from above. “Unbelievable,” Zant grumbled, purposely twice as loud as usual as to be heard complaining properly above the sounds of wind and ice. “Despite your tomfoolery, the Circle is as good as perfect, still!”

Ghirahim twirled one last time, lowered and his leg outstretched to make another small circle, his arms raised in counter-balance. Once he’d carved it out enough, he rose with a cheeky smile, turning in place to face him. “I never settle for anything less!”

“You make it look fun,” Zant teased, lowering himself on the ice to stand beside him. How the lanky thing hadn’t slipped yet was beyond him.

Ghirahim cocked an eyebrow at him, pursing his lips with a self-satisfied smile. “Is Magic not fun to you, then?”

“Of course it is,” he chuckled in response, dodging the puffs of frost Ghirahim dusted off his shoulder. “It’s simply… Well, it’s becoming on you, Ghirahim-ili. You truly take somatic conduction to a different level.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes, coming to a halt beside him, finally. “Oh, just say you like my dancing, you dolt.”

A giggle erupted beside him. “There is very little I don’t like about you,” Zant cooed.

“That’s lip service and you know it,” Ghirahim groaned, sticking his hands in his sides as he dismissed the blades at his feet. “Well, that should be all of it. Go ahead and say your little magic words. I’m eager to get this over with and leave this cold behind us, already. You’re shivering.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zant laughed, before once again paging through his grimoire.  “Alright, then. We’ll have to take some distance from the Circle…”

Each took their own side of the circle, one making his way across the ice more smoothly than the other. Ghirahim wrapped himself in his cloak, arms folded while he watched Zant test the waters with this new magic. Just the sight of him flipping pages back and forth, muttering to himself in lack of certainty, made that comforting, familiar urge to bully him surface. He soon found himself grateful for having kept his mouth shut, because the sight of Zant seconds later would have fed whatever mockery he uttered directly back to him. Within the first two syllables, the markings on Zant’s forehead began glowing vibrantly. The same teal glow faintly, but surely, bled into the grooves of the sigil on the lake, slowly spreading over to Ghirahim’s side. 

His voice was like the wind, icy and ubiquitous, a whisper that carried into every crack and groove in the valley and would haunt the deepest bottom of the lake. Ghirahim shuddered.

The final words were spoken, echoing through the valley until they last faded with the wind. For a little while, it was perfectly silent on the lake. Zant’s ominous presence lingered for a moment, causing even the lungless sword spirit to hold a breath. Their summoning circle glowed, albeit weakly. It took a minute, perhaps two, before the pair exchanged a frown from each side of the sigil, making the first timid steps forward to inspect their work for any mistakes.

A deep, resonant rumble stopped them both in their tracks. The inner lines of the sigil turned cyan blue, then a dull, sandy yellow, before blurring out altogether when the whole magic circle filled with a swirling light. Each man instinctively shielded his eyes but did not dare look away fully. Below the ice, a shadow slowly faded into view. It wobbled, it grew, it twisted, until Ghirahim realized it was a mere trick of the light. That shadow didn’t come from underwater but from the circle. 

Light burst from the circle, followed by a sudden wave of sand. The summoned inhabitant was climbing into the skies. Tawny brown scales shone on a massive, fish-like head, trailed by the bristling black spikes down its serpentine body, Its maw split open into two floppy, pink, and bulbous halves, unleashing a bubbling roar from a toothless gullet. At its first few feet of surfacing, the beast sounded confused and enraged, yet as more and more of it twisted into the freezing air of the lake, it began to screech and contort with pain. As Ghirahim thought, the cold was growing fatal to the creature now blotting out the skies very quickly. More alarmingly, the frost clinging to its body seemed to be impeding its ability to fly. Slowly but surely, it writhed, it shuddered, and it sank in the air, right above the madly cackling Twilight King, whose hands were raised in triumph.

Before Ghirahim could utter even a single word of warning, the shadowy man disappeared, and mere seconds later, the beast crashed into the ice with a high-pitched screech, its whining echoing through the valley. The ice could hold the two men with no problem, but whatever this sandworm was, it weighed several tons. The lake broke apart. One second, the surface was cracking into a web, and the next, each little island jutted its edges upward around their new monster with a resounding shatter. Pillars of water shot into the sky, spewing out between the cracks in the ice. Their peaks whipped away into mist from the wind, though a non-zero, pesky amount found its way to Ghirahim’s feet. As did some of the cracks in the ice, he noted. The roaring deluge crashed back down onto the surface. Wind from the impact whipped through Ghirahim’s hair, while the waves coursed across the ice to lap at his ankles. 

Right as he raised his hand to snap his fingers, a shadow loomed over him.

“Now would be a good time to retrieve our new asset, before either of you sinks to the bottom,” hummed a cold and deep voice beside him.

Oh, what impatience! Ghirahim had half a mind to let it sink, but it would be an awful waste of their combined efforts. Still, he winced at the thought of having to touch a cold, wet, sandy creature, who-knows-where the Twili ripped it from. Well, he’d put up with worse, certainly. The ice below him cracked alarmingly, shrieking from the weight of solid metal pushing down. He swiftly decided against a new gig as an anchor and snapped his fingers, yanking the madman hovering gleefully beside him into the aether with him.

Four hands planted themselves on a beast now too weakened to protest. Scales bristled, eyes rolled, and squeaks rang out, but the Molgera could struggle no longer. Perhaps if it’d known where it was headed, it would have struggled a little less. 

With a single snap of the fingers, diamond magic and specks of twilight combined. Seconds later, Lake Hylia was silent, a yawning crater left in its ice.

[spotsupstuff]

What was your favorite Slugcat to play and your favorite Iterator to draw?

(i haven't played Saint yet) i suppooooooose it might be actually a tie between Spearmaster, Rivulet and Artificer? the movement of the latter two was a lot of fun, but i'm too attached to Spearmaster that i don't wanna leave it out. constant supply of spears took one of my main worries away for the whole game

and favorite Iterator to draw?? oh boy, i don't think i can choose... i do draw my own designs which i did my best to cater specifically to my enjoyment from drawing. it'd be easier to say what i like drawing the most out of their singular designs, so i'll do that (AND i get to ramble about that i love doin that)

originally i talked about like. all iterators i've ever really drawn but then i fucked up n what i had written was deleted so i guess we are doin only few. the main five i think of when trying to figure out which i like drawing the best:

• Pebbles: everything about his head is a joy to me. the shape of it, his marks, antennas.. the shape of his feet is a lot of fun and something about the combination of the Gen 3 skeletal body type and hanfu just... fits for him. along with his angry expression. it's like... a certain regal beauty but there's sharp teeth hiding within it. i like to try my best to imbue certain feelings into my designs and then how i draw them (especially on my own time- when i draw for asks i feel like... this important essence, the characterization, gets muddled at least a tad). with Pebbles i'm going for something like "small flame, burning bright- a fighter, yet so soft and fragile, sharp and divinely glorious, determined yet still so damn scared. i want to hold your hands, understand what the time has done to them and say that i'm very sorry. you shouldn't have had to become so rageful. they made you to be alive and didn't let you live." • Nish: of course *he's* here. from the scarf to the general loosenes of his fit (even though he should be more of a Tube, i'm not doin the kimono inspiration justice n i am sorry) is a lot of fun. the looser the clothes are, the more i enjoy drawing them!! i really like drawing his mark and i'm very proud of my design for his headphone audial things this time around. unlike last time, they are meant to be bigger than others' and they are red instead of dark green. the three holes in them? Especially proud of those. he's specifically high up there with my favorite iterators to draw because of his attitude, though • Boreas: he's so stupid big it makes me giggle. drawing him next to Gen 3s is so??? sir please come down we need to have a chat- hello? do u hear me???- okay but seriously, i'm very happy that i've settled on a chlamys for him. the sort of like. collar that i've decided the cloth will make for him compliments his personality well and i like drawing my collars a ton. it's not visible here because it isn't colored, but his antennas go from dark dark blue to vibrant red thru a gradient and i LOVE it so much. combined with the aggressive shape of them? mwah. also the leaf-like things on his audials are so simple to draw and add so much to his vibes that i always look forward to drawin them. revisiting his design and giving him the warranted love made him so so strong and dear to me... p sure he's currently my favorite from my ocs • Notos: a perfect example of why "less is more" is a saying. i like drawing it specifically cuz it's literally just. a bitch playing on a ghost with a bedsheet except when u look under that hood there are some Feckin yaoguai teeth waiting there. Those are a bitch to draw but i did this specifically to learn to draw teeth like that better. also. special shout out to the interaction of Iterator antennas and a bedsheet over the head. shkika keeps bein weak for those "cat ears" in our dms, it's funny to see Notos out of all my kids get those kind of reactions jglkdscmlksdmlk

• Fish: FISH IS FISH. he has big dumb round glasses what more could i possibly need to enjoy drawing a man. but also those antennas... they make him a lot of fun to draw n i look forward to drawin them each time. my thanks to @/w1ngw0ng and @/medi-bee for bettering them just by being themselves

special shout outs go to Zephyr for being challenging to represent properly (physically relatively weak, fragile, yet burning blindingly bright, sharp, determined and brave- just being a leader of a revolution even though her physical form doesn't really fit it), FAM (@/medi-bee) for bein an absolute freak (i love him. i love Nips even more)

and NRD (@/splynter) for being different yet familiar and for being colored like a dead body. Very Cool Of Them 👍

[hel-phoenyx]

18) One of them is sick.

Kaizarz belongs to @corneille-but-not-the-author

"Stop squirming."

I swear to the Glorious Lady of Blood, taking care of a teenager is a fucking hassle when you're not so far from your teens yourself. The only problem is that we're currently alone at home, mom and dad are away on another honeymoon (or way to run far from the expectations at the castle), and the ship is out for an expedition. They'll be back in a week.

So I have a week to fend for myself and Tyr.

And what does Tyr do when we're home alone ?

I pin him down to the bed, again. He's strong, got much stronger growing up, but the sickness is considerably weakening him.

Well it doesn't weaken the whining.

"Kriss, let me out of bed... I have things to do..."

"Yes, recover. That's what you get for swimming in the sea in the middle of January."

"I didn't swim per se... Kaizarz threw me in and then the allergies weakened me..."

I roll my eyes.

"That counts, dumbass. And I don't have the prince here to scream at, so you get it. When you stop sniffling and coughing and shit, you will get to the palace and give him my two gold pieces about him acting like a fucking child."

Tyr coughs again. Albeit a little weaker.

"But Kriss, we are children..."

By the Gods does he want to get slapped. Being sassy with me while I'm holding his medicine ? Really Tyr ? The mouth of you, really. If only someone found a way to shut it up.

Too bad that apparently, only two people are capable of that, and one is away at sea while the other is at the fucking castle and I'm certainly not gonna go here to fetch him.

Can you imagine ? "Hey, your Royal Highness, can you leave your princey duties for a while so you can shut my idiotic brother up in whatever way you see fit"?

Ocean below that would be ridiculous.

So I have to fend for myself.

"Yes, you are, and not very clever at that. So now you drink your medicine and you shut up, or I'll give you shit for exposing a pregnant lady to your war-damned miasma."

I'll have to recognise something, Tyr is still valiant enough to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know... That shit tastes like rotten algae though."

"Maybe because it is. Now bottoms up !"

And before he has any time to protest i drop a full spoon of the infamous remedy in his throat. Immediatly he starts coughing, spluttering, trying to both give back the medicine and keep it ; finally the "keep" part wins and he swallows, albeit with difficulty.

That brings me a smile.

"Well that is much better. Aren't you a good boy."

"Fuck youuuuu."

"Gustav's taking care of that, thanks, and the virgin has nothing to say regarding the fucks."

He has a little laugh. At least he's enough in shape to laugh, even if he still can't get out of bed. That's good. I would be worried if he didn't sass me, actually.

We're all alone against the world and even though he's the best soldier in the war in life, I can't just let him fend for himself, right ? He is still, despite everything, my little brother.

****

Dumbass is coughing since three days and thinks we didn't notice. Like I couldn't feel the fever radiating from his body. He's not even wearing his coat. Well. The coat, per say.

So here he is, walking in the corridors of the castle like a damn zombie thinking he looks healthy. He does not. I keep junior away from him, more than usual I mean, for a reason. and Kaizarz, blessed be his dumb soul, is eating his nails since this morning.

I'm with him, right now. I had to stop his nervous walking-in-castle. Dude, you're not gonna do anything good if you keep worrying. It's probably just a cold, Tyrfing is just an idiot.

Yet people still worry about him.

That's more than I get.

I hate that.

I hate that so much.

Why do you still have people close from you when you took all of mine ?

But I need to keep calm. I can't rant to the damn king. He's kind enough to give me a roof. And he looks strangely guilty every time he talks to me.

Well.

Strangely.

Anyway. I stop his hand from going in his mouth again. At this rate he won't have nails at all anymore.

"There, your Majesty, stop that shit. It's not helping."

"But-"

"No buts. I'll take care of that. You're just here to stop him from escaping."

Because to ease the worry I devised a plan to put the stupid in his bed. And since I am far from having the needed strenght I'll need the strongest man around.

That is, Kaizarz. Plus, I'm sure his sad puppy eyes would considerably weaken my pining-in-denial brother.

So double the plan.

I can't believe I am forced to do this. But hey, junior is with the healers, can't call them for Tyrfing.

Sigh.

Speaking of the dragon descendant, there he is. Walking next to the walls like he doesn't want to be spotted. The fuck is he planning again. You're sick, you idiot !

I signal Kaizarz to move and he does, puzzled. Not used to take orders I guess. Too bad, I wore the pants in my relationship. I certainly don't intend to stop now when Tyrfing is involved.

Tyrfing that almost jumps in surprise when he sees me.

"... Kriss ?"

"Enough hugging the walls, I'm bringing you to your bed."

He blinks. Turns towards Kaizarz, with a puzzled look on his face; Said Kaizarz is just worried, now. For his defence, Tyrfing is pale as fuck today. I think it's getting worse. What the fuck did he do to fall that sick.

I can't believe I'm still worried about you.

I shouldn't.

I should hate you.

I do hate you.

But still, seeing your tired face, dark circles and red nose breaks my heart for a reason.

Why are you still my little brother.

"What is..."

"You're sick, you piece of shit. I will bring you to your bed before the illness propagates to the whole castle. Do you really want junior to catch it ?"

A grimace forms on his lips, but he stills takes several steps back.

"I told you, I'm fine-"

"Certainly not. No getting out of the bed for you today !"

That wasn't me. That was Kaizarz, sneaking behind him to take him by the waist. He's now unable to escape, and I doubt his red cheeks are from the illness. Not entirely.

".... the fuck, Kaizarz."

"I can tell you the same. You're burning hot, why are you out of bed ?!"

Suuuuure he is. But not gonna make any comments on the matter, not in the mood to joke. Even though Tyrfing would probably be very unhappy about that.

Right now he just looks defeated.

"Again, I am fine-"

"None of that with me, you big fucker. Now you shut up, or I ask his Majesty to shut you up for me."

Weird. Don't know why I said that. The teasing I wanted to do probably went through my head. But at the same time, it reminds me of a very, very distant memory. Where everything was fine. Where we were still brother and sister.

When he didn't have blood on his hands.

Well.

Hand.

And I don't know why either. But the memory makes me burst into laughing.

Probably that Tyrfing has the same souvenir in mind, since his defeated look gets softer, almost like a smile. Before he starts snickering a little bit, right in the arms of a dumbfounded Kaizarz.

"... What's so funny about that ?"

"Nothing."

Tyrfing shrugs. Smiles a little more.

"Just a little sibling joke."

[x-ceirios-x]

City of Lost Souls, Chapter 21: Raising Hell

please see the masterlist for notes about this series/collection of works

"Can you see her?" Jocelyn demanded. "Is she there?"

Simon tried to focus on the milling darkness ahead of him, his vampire senses sharpening at the distinct scent of blood. Different kinds of blood, mixing together—Shadowhunter blood, demon blood, and the bitterness of Sebastian's blood. "I see her," he said. "Jace has hold of her. He's pulling her behind that line of Shadowhunters there."

"If they're loyal to Jonathan like the Circle was to Valentine, they'll make a wall of bodies to protect him, and Clary and Jace along with him." Jocelyn was all cold maternal fury, her green eyes burning. "We're going to have to break through it to get to them."

“We need to get to Sebastian,” said Rowan. “Simon, we’ll make you a path. You get to Sebastian and run him through with that sword. Once he dies—”

"The others will probably scatter," said Magnus. "Or, depending on how tied they are to Sebastian, they might die and collapse along with him. We can hope, at least." He craned his head back. "Speaking of hope, did you see that shot Alec got off with his bow? That's my boyfriend." He beamed and wiggled his fingers; blue sparks shot from them. He shone all over. Only Magnus, Simon thought resignedly, would have access to sequined battle armor. 

Rowan pulled their chakram off of their belt and turned toward Simon, white-knuckled fists on both of them. They were anxious, as much as they were trying to hide it. “Are you ready?”

Simon's shoulders tightened. They were still some distance from the line of the opposing army— he didn't know how else to think of them—who were holding their line in their red robes and gear, their hands bristling with weapons. Some of them were exclaiming out loud in confusion. He couldn't hold back a grin.

“Hell, Simon,” Rowan said exasperatedly. “What are you smiling about?”

"Their seraph blades don't work anymore," said Simon. "They’re trying to figure out why. Sebastian just shouted at them to use other weapons." A cry came up from the line as another arrow swooped down from the tomb and buried itself in the back of a burly red-robed Shadowhunter, who collapsed forward. The line jerked and opened slightly, like a fracture in a wall. Simon, seeing his chance, dashed forward, and the others rushed with him.

It was like diving into a black ocean at night, an ocean, filled with sharks and viciously toothed sea creatures colliding against one another. It was not the first battle Simon had ever been in, but during the Mortal War he had been newly Marked with the Mark of Cain. It hadn't quite begun working yet, though many demons had reeled back upon seeing it. He had never thought he would miss it, but he missed it now, as he tried to shove forward through the tightly packed Shadowhunters, who hacked at him with blades. Rowan was on one side of him, Magnus on the other, protecting him—protecting Glorious. Rowan’s silver knives flew through the air and shone in the moonlight, and Magnus's hands spat fire, red and green and blue. Lashes of colored fire struck the dark Nephilim, burning them where they stood. Other Shadowhunters screamed as Luke's wolves slunk among them, nipping and biting, leaping for their throats.

A dagger shot out with astonishing speed and sliced at Simon's side. He cried out but kept going, knowing the wound would knit itself together in seconds. He pushed forward—and froze. A familiar face was before him. Luke's sister, Amatis. As her eyes settled on him, he saw the recognition in them. What was she doing here? Had she come to fight alongside them? But—

She lunged at him, a darkly gleaming dagger in her hand. She was fast—but not so fast that his vampire reflexes couldn't have saved him, if he hadn't been too astonished to move. Amatis was Luke's sister; he knew her; and that moment of disbelief might have been the end of him if Magnus hadn't jumped in front of him, shoving him backward. Blue fire shot from Magnus's hand, but Amatis was faster than the warlock, too. She spun away from the blaze and under Magnus's arm, and Simon caught the flash of moonlight off the blade of her knife. Magnus's eyes widened in shock as her midnight-colored blade drove downward, slicing through his armor. She jerked it back, the blade now slick with reflective blood; Rowan screamed as Magnus collapsed to his knees. Simon tried to turn toward him, but the surge and pressure of the fighting crowd was carrying him away. He cried out Magnus's name as Amatis bent over the fallen warlock and raised the dagger a second time, aiming for his heart.

Amatis drove a knife toward Magnus’s heart—just as a loud boom sounded over the fighting. Something small, a bullet, Simon realized, flew through the air. He did live in Brooklyn, but he thought Shadowhunters didn't use guns. The bullet slammed into Amatis’s shoulder with such force that she spun halfway around and fell face-forward to the rocky ground. She was screaming, a noise quickly drowned out by the clash of weapons around them. Rowan knelt by Magnus’s side; Simon, glancing up, saw Andy on the stone tomb, standing frozen with a smoking gun in her hand, blond curls blowing in the wind. She looked like a character from a movie—blood staining her face and gear, staring her mother down without an ounce of sympathy.  Rowan had their hands against the warlock’s chest, but Magnus—Magnus, who was always so kinetic, so bursting with energy—was utterly still under their touch. They looked up and saw Simon staring at them; their hands were red with blood, but they shook their head at him violently. 

“Go!” they shouted. “Find Sebastian!”

With a wrench, Simon turned himself around and plunged back into the battle. 

[yoki-doki-then]

FFXIV Write 2024 - B U T T E

A gentle sunshower pools and falls in uniformity down the edge of a parasol. Upon its violet fabrics, the light of the sky scatters, the tool's wielder safe from all its attentions. Though the rocky path to their home has shifted ever so slightly, they still know the way. There's a strange sort of adjustment from so many years nudging forward in zori and shifting to the wide legged swings of gutal. Once in a while, they play at returning to a demure step, shifting their gait ever so slightly-pigeon toed, and laugh at the theatre of it.

Occasionally, this Au Ra's shining pink eyes glance to their heavy black horns, watching the water pool and drip down onto their bare shoulders, sliding across scale and skin until it reaches the fur of their undone coat. Once in a while, they flick midnight-painted nails at their slight body, dispersing the excess with precision.

In the distance, across the rolling green fields of the Azim Steppes, they see it. Home. At least, it was. They remember their brief forray in play, a gang of children with them. Barely teenagers. What was even the game? It barely mattered. Their jeers of joy turned shrill when they heard the thundering hooves coming of black-hearted opportunists. Of course they'd be run down. Captured. Killed. It was a given. But still, most of them ran, save the one who knew they wouldn't make it.

Did curling up in a ball save them? The rainbow of colors for their coat offered no shelter from sight. But the fetal position was the universal sign of submission, wasn't it? Maybe if they were stronger, they would have been speared. A quicker step would have meant being run down. Maybe it's a sign of strength, to just admit you've lost before you've fought.

Their clothes are darker now. Pleasantly earth-toned, mind you, but darker. They wouldn't be caught out again. If they were in that glorious ensemble again, perhaps the watchpost on that singular outcropping would see them now. Would they even be recognized by their blood? It's been so long.

Their fingers twitch at their side. Survival would be a given if they went back home. While their people would hopefully respect them turning from designation of 'househusband' they were raised to be, they'd probably serve as a spouse anyway. Who would be theirs? More accurately, who would they belong to?

"I'm tired of belonging to someone," they murmur. The voice doesn't feel their own. It's bereft of put-upon kindness. Taken by poachers. Sold to scum. Pulled to contract. Drafted by tyrants. How many owners have they had? What would a wedding be, if not telling yet another master that they're to be owned.

"Sorry," they whisper louder, staring at the distant post. "I'm not ready to be loved, I suppose." They pull their hand back through their hair, combing at their bob. "I don't think I ever will be."

"But I do love to be surprised." They tilt their parasol down, and smile into the rain. The sun shines back its blessings.

[crystal-verse]

Day 3 - Tempest

[a moment from the eighth umbral era in an au of my au wherein k'pheli and g'raha but briefly met, and k'pheli did not take part in the crystal tower expedition. uses he/they for g'raha]

The howling winds of the tempest shake the very walls of Revenant's Toll, and within a room built into the stone cliffs, Raha shivers. He pulls the many layers of blankets tighter around himself, foolishly attempting to converse any more warmth that he could. Even with his fur standing on end, there's little warmth to be had, this stormy winter evening.

The Ironworks try to be accommodating. They're used to the colder weather -- 'tis a result of their being born into this era, surely. Since the Eighth Umbral Calamity, the world has been colder. The people turning on each other, and the temperature plummeting as the weather changed. Or, so Biggs -- Biggs the IIIrd -- had told him. Raha has no way of truly knowing for sure without leaving Revenant's Toll, and -- he cannot do that.

(Two hundred years of sleep let his muscles atrophy, his strength seep away, naught more than skin and bones. The Tower kept him alive, of course, but for Raha to be awake enough to be woken he had to be in less than as deep a stasis as he had set the rest of the Tower in, and so he simply. . . slowly, slowly melted into the Tower. They'd had to carry him out, when they found him, for Raha could barely summon the strength to lift his head when he'd awakened.)

Another shiver wracks his frame, and his ears press further flat against his skull, flared out tail wrapping around his midsection beneath the blankets.

"Here." One of the Ironworks members -- a Viera, with ears that droop and eyes that are kind despite the tired look in them -- drapes yet another blanket over Raha's shoulders, a thick comforter this time. Raha has no idea where 'tis from, but 'tis soft, and thick, the kind that one sleeps with in the coldest of winters. "You need it more than the rest of us right now."

He looks at her, wide-eyed. "Are you certain?"

Another Ironworks member, this time a tall and lean Auri man, snorts. "Lad, if don't take the blanket, someone's going to pull you into their lap and insist upon transfer of body heat." There's a twist to his lips, there, a failed attempt at stifling a smirk. "You look rather pathetic, shivering under all those blankets."

Raha's ears stay pinned against his head, though now for a different reason. Shame courses through him. For it to be so apparent how weak I am. . . Here he was, having proclaimed of being a great hero for the future, and yet he was the one who needed the kindness of others lest he die.

The winds calm, for but a few brief moments. They will rise again soon, Raha knows, the same way they have through the entire day. Still, it is marginally warmer, now, so he shivers and shakes himself out of that pile of blankets, and carefully stands on trembling, fawnlike legs. The Auri man keeps an eye on Raha, but he needn't have done so -- Raha has improved enough to do this much, at least. Handing out the blankets is not the most glorious of tasks and Raha does miss the warmth immediately afterwards, but with no fires inside and little desire to spend valuable fuel on warming themselves up, 'tis at least a kindness to give the Ironworks their own warmth, however slight.

(Raha keeps the comforter, though. It had been gifted to them.)

When the task is done, Raha settles against a wall, still in eyesight of the Auri man. Perhaps he's their designated watcher, for the while -- Raha had resented that they needed a watcher, at first, but upon seeing the ruins that had become of the world, after painfully realizing just how much the Crystal Tower took from them while they'd slept, Raha had seen the wisdom in it.

He sighs. The storm will pass, and they will be able to resume their work. And they -- the Ironworks, and whoever is left to join them in their cause, and Raha themself -- will further progress towards their goal of going back in time, of saving the Warrior of Light. (Sae'pheli'ehva's ghost haunts them all, Raha things. This person who had been so tired, even when Raha had known him but briefly. This person who had thrown himself into the role of Warrior of Light, so thoroughly that though his cousin shared the mantle 'twas little recorded of him other than what he did for his role, other than what his role demanded of him.

Raha. . . wants to know Sae'pheli'ehva. He'll never get to, of course, should his goals succeed, but -- perhaps. If all goes to plan. He can make the world a bit kinder, through whatever small actions, and Sae'pheli'ehva will have a reason to be something other than just the Warrior of Light.)

The wind begins to howl again. Raha pulls the comforter further around him, and tries to sleep. (It is a long while before sleep finds them.)

[gabessquishytum]

i'm a fellow spn survivor and a/b/o is my guilty pleasure really. A thought I've head in my head for weeks and weeks is this:

Humans don't have a/b/o, the endless, on the other hand, do. Dream is an alpha. He doesn't go into rut unless he's really attracted to someone, though. He's VERY attracted to Hob. They're not together yet, and Dream is so desperately trying to make himself un-fall in love with Hob because he knows exactly what's going to happen.

Needless to say, Dream can do nothing except fall more and more for Hob. And so, one day Big!Dream pops up into Hob's flat, after holding himself back for as long as possible, flushed all the way to his ears and neck, tearing up a little, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, hair plastered to his face with sweat. Hob has never seen anything more erotic in his life, but he's about to ask if Dream is sick or something beause he looks feverish, until Hob's eyes flick down and. Dream's hard and his cock is massive, he's wearing his light robes because he can't wear any other clothes with that erection, and he's tenting them very obviously and drenching them with precome.

Hob wants nothing more than to get on his knees and lick him clean, but of course he's worried about his friend and eventually Dream manages to explain shamefully a bit of how his biology works, that he's like this because he's in love with Hob and he's so sorry but he physically can't stay away from Hob right now, he's really very sorry he won't touch Hob or anything but he needs to be around his scent at least.

Hob of course is quick to reassure him he also loves Dream and wants him. Dream kinda jumps him after and he comes with Hob's hands, his mouth, between his tighs, he just doesn't expect Hob to want him inside him especially after he manages to explain the knotting thing to him but Hob just. Literally begs Dream to fuck him. And yeah it's difficult, Dream has to be so careful preparing him (and they have to take breaks because Dream keeps needing to come over and over) but eventually Dream can put his cock inside Hob and it's. glorious. Hob has never felt so full, and when Dream comes (way too soon bc Hob is so tight and he loves him and it's just too much) he begs Dream for his knot even if he doesn't know what he's in for exactly, just because Dream needs it, and Dream tries to warn him, tries to force himself to pull out but. he's inside his beloved, filling him with rivers of cum and crying with how good it feels and Hob is begging for his knot and yeah, Dream's body decides for him.

And it's Hob's turn to shout and thrash and cry because Dream's knot swells so huge against his prostate, presses so hard it hurts but it's a good kind of pain, and Dream stays in him for hours coming and coming and coming with his knot pulsing against Hob's prostate and Hob is so overstimulated but it's sooo good.

It's just really appealing to me that a human with not much knowledge of a/b/o is so down to try it, kinda like in teen wolf fics.

Of course I have many breeding kink thoughts related to this but it's been a few bad pain days so that's it from me for now.

-PA

PA anon you are an absolute treasure. Big Dream who is also an alpha.... umm yes PLEASE. Also!!! Hob wanting to please Dream and give him relief!!! Even when he doesn't even really know what's going on!!! That is just too good. If Hob finds out that he's actually super into it and he's absolutely going to need this knotting thing to be a regular occurance please, even better! I love the mental image of Hob’s poor human body attempting to take something so overworldly and fucking loving every single second of it <3

[walshnikki]

kingoftheheels:

This was a partner-ship on every level…or at least, there seemed to be growing feelings between them. At least, far as he could tell. Not that he had made any kind of attempt to cross the line.

He turned his head back, watching and making sure the others had left. Fully. His hands still working against her backside, squeezing and feeling her cheeks. Something he had only dreamed about.

“Staci has the entire trip to use against me,” he said whispering. “All the money, I’ve spent elsewhere. She knows where I stand. I live at the ring.”

He made no attempt to move away from Nikki. Instead, he lowered his head to her neck and began sucking and kissing. Marking her. Letting a bit of his wild side out. He pulled back slightly, meeting her eyes.

He brushed his nose against her’s. His lips ever so close. Yet, not connecting.

“I can help you work the stage. Handle Crystal in the ring. I need you to start acting the part.”

It was a bold move. A risky one of his part. One that he would either regret or succeed at.

“Don’t be afraid. I don’t care if everyone in the studio sees us make out.” He closed his eyes contemplating. “I want you as my partner on every. Single. Level.”

He reached for her hand and embraced it. “If you’ll allow me the honor, my Queen.”

Is mental whiplash a thing? Nikki wondered absently as the moment shifted from professional to the unprofessional. Was this really happening? Now? Here? They’d been dancing around the unspoken draw between them for months now, playing with fire, but never giving in. Why was he choosing now to finally cross that unspoken boundary?

“Staci has the entire trip to use against me,” he said whispering. “All the money, I’ve spent elsewhere. She knows where I stand. I live at the ring.”

“As of this very moment,” Nikki whispered in return, holding on tight to what logic and common sense she could under the onslaught of pure want. “there’s nothing about this trip for her to use. It’s work, allowing you to,” here she struggled to get the words out, “provide for she & Thomas.”

It would be glorious, she knew, if they only dared to take the metaphorical leap; all the heat and desire that had been simmering since that very first meeting would explode. It wouldn’t end there, though. No, she knew that if they started this, there’d be no stopping it. Whatever lay between them was the real deal. God, every cell in her body wanted to just give in to the pull between them.

But she couldn’t be that selfish and that’s exactly what she would be doing if she let herself give in to her own wants. It wasn’t about just her, or Jack, it was about Thomas. She had to think about what was best for the youngest Spade. Yes, Staci had served Jack with divorce papers, but nothing was over until it was legally over. Until then, Thomas deserved a chance for his parents to reconcile, a chance (however small) to have his family reunited without any obstruction. That was the least that Nikki could give the child, isn’t it?

The idea that the little boy would come to hate her for ‘destroying his family,’ at any point in the future was physically painful. He’d earned a place in her heart all his own during her babysitting stints with him while Jack & Staci had attended marriage counseling sessions or gone on date nights, hoping to rekindle what they once had. She couldn’t have him thinking that she’d come between his parents; he’d hate her.

“The divorce, Jack, if we stop right-uh,” the Maryland native groaned as Jack dropped his head to kiss her neck. Oh fuck. Why was he testing her will so? “-right now, we haven’t done anything we cannot undo. We can just pretend none of this happened.”

“I don’t care if everyone in the studio sees us make out.”

“You should care,” Nikki replied, placing her hands upon his broad shoulders. The warmth of golden skin was so appealing. She pushed him back a step, meeting his steel blue eyes dead on so he could see her sincerity, “She could take everything in the divorce if she gets the ammo, Jack, and I don’t want to be that ammo against you. If she took Thomas ‘cause of me…” She shook her head mournfully, “I can’t be the reason that your family crumbles, Jack, I can’t.”

“If you’ll allow me the honor, my Queen.”

“Jack, you’re talking crazy,” she said, a tired smile playing at her lips, “you aren’t even divorced yet.” In spite of her words, her smaller fingers curled into his, “Don’t you want to sow some wild oats or something?”

Shaking her head softly, the younger woman hurried to assure, “I’m not judging. You deserve to have some fun, explore being single again, but I can’t be your rebound. We’re the real thing, and too good together to fuck this up.”

@kingoftheheels

[limpfisted]

BALDUR’S GATE, GORTASH, ULDER, WYLL.

what if i told you, that ulder’s vision u uncover when u look into his mind, and u see wyll, ulder, and gortash usher in a new glorious dawn for baldur’s gate, and u see that the part of ulder that is legitimately him, is the part that wants the best for baldur’s gate, is a FASCINATING BIT OF LORE, that is further proof that in many ways, gortash is GOOD for the city, and has probably been working for the good of the city, for quite a long time, WITH ULDER. and what if i also told u, that while wyll sees the beauty in baldur’s gate, the adventure of his childhood—the city was actually an incredibly evil and dangerous place to grow up in, where he was only truly protected by his father (neutral) and the flaming fists who all enact dangerous, corrupt brutality and thievery under his father’s watch.

what if i told u wyll would have complex feelings about baldur’s gate. what if i told u he didn’t JUST learn to spar with his father because he loved to fight—but probably because he feared his child would get stabbed, and that he knew his son would have to be TOUGH while he delivered messages to all the taverns snd brothels of baldur’s gate. what if i told you the grandduke wasn’t elected to be grandduke until seven years ago, right before wyll was exiled, and that means that likely wyll WAS a rich and new money almost-noble/politician’s son that was allowed to go to balls. but that he always was Apart, always smarter, tougher, street savvier. and yet not as street savvy as the REAL poor people. he was always protected from them

what if i told you the steel watch and the iron theone would have taken AT LEAST 3-5 years to build and maintain to fer o this level. that ulder probably would have had to approve some of this, though not all of it, of course. (he probably didnt know about the slavery or human experimentation, but still.)

what if i told you ulder was willfully, intentionally blind to a LOT. that to be a politician in power and to do right by the city he loved like the hero balduran he loved, his idealism made him simply. jetral instead of good. he had to make deals and work with people he didnt like. he liked people he didnt agree with.

and for someone like wyll, who would see that, who would see his “uncles” in the flaming fist hurt people, take bribes, etc, i imagine that taking a deal with a devil didn’t seem all that different.

he is nostalgic for baldur’s gate and the good in it, and even the bad, but it is easier to be nostalgic in a baldur’s gate that is BETTER because of gortash and the steel watch making sure there arent bodies everywhere on the streets of the lower city. that its not a gothic horror hellscape, isntead of the fresh open airs hes now used to

baldur’s gate is his home, and he loves it. but gods, sometimes it is hard to love when it is built on so much suffering. and just like his idealistic to thr point of delusional father—it helps to have hope in something, even if that someing is a fairy tale metal knight with a broad chest who can be imparitsl and controlled and doent take bribes or commit unnecessary violence, or a fairy tale creator, like balduran, who was a perfect leader in every way, who espoused every virtue possible.

wyll would be DISGUSTED with the truth of the steel watch. but also. i think. if u grow up around thr flaming fists, and kind of…. hate them, even tho u see them as ur father’s “necessary evil”? bc u see the truth of them more than anyone? u kind of. realize shit. and dont stop realizing it.

coming back to baldurs gate and starting to rule it himself is a huge wake up call of ohhhhh this sucks this sucks this alllllll sucks LOL.

because there is also a part of him that would always lrefer to ignore how bad it truly was here and he…. can’t now. and now it’s his responsibility. and he has to make the necessary evil calls.

i think wyll would be a fool to kill gortash, honestly. like i think he would WANT to. as the blade of avernus, hed do it without a second thought. but as the archduke of baldur’s gate? that’s stupid. gortash has vastly improved the quality of life by making sure the average person is safer than they would have been when wyll left

like it cannot be overstated how gortash might be lawful evil, but so is. evryone else in baldur’s gate. in a lot of ways, he’s a lesser evil, and one that ACTUALLY wants to help baldur’s gate

it’s not so cut and dry. like maybe he wants to sap you of your free will. but he wants to give you a good life, a decent life, where u can be happy, where u can be proud of ur son, and proud of ur father.

and maybe being mind controlled and happy and SAFE is better than ur whole family being dead? or dying urself? or starving in the streets? u know? idk.

gortash was wrong and is a fascist, and he’s undoubtably evil. but wyll can objectively look st things like the steel watch, and go, “…. without the human experimentstion and slavery, it would be really really coll to have steampunk knights going around helping people, objectively.”

[queenofdragons12]

Ignited Flames Within Us All - Stray Kids (OT8) x Reader

Ch. 2

Ch.3 korean is italics and english is nromal ;)

It was time for a new kind of work. You had to be with lost children on your way to a new place where the nine could relax. There would be cameras around like usual since this was for the YouTube thing they did call SKZ CODE.

This would be the first time you would join, and you were more than ready. With a cozy sweater, you sat beside Chan and Hyunjin on the way to the location close to Chan's side. Hyunjin had his arm across your hips, his fingers tracing lines of unknown paths into them.

"We're here," said the filming director, and the Stray Kids all perked up. You steeled yourself, getting ready to join us behind the camera for the first time since you'd been appointed their manager.

Now it was time to see if STAY liked you or were just being kind because they had never seen your look before. There were little clips here and there when you took the time to dance with the boys, but other than that, STAY had never seen you.

To say you weren't nervous would be lying. Instead, you exited the van and smiled at the weird sight before you.

While there had been acts of a romantic place, you couldn't say no to this place. And you had yet to see the hotel you would stay.

"Come!" Felix pulled your hand, and you chuckled and deliberately followed along with the camera on your back as you and the sunshine walked out onto the muddy surface and stepped carefully on the ground.

The other boys soon call you in Chan's voice to be the tallest.

You and Felix walked up to them, Hyunjin immediately flanking you with a hand protectively around your waist while Felix had a hand on your shoulder.

Their friendly questions made your pulse flare up, and you turned away from the camera that would clearly capture all this.

The boys didn't seem to mind. "Let's get to our hotel," said Lee Know, a smile sent your way. You smiled back and straightened your back, the boys' hands still on your body for comfort.

Let's just say the hotel was glorious.

You immediately forgot about the pressure of a camera breathing down your back and ran inside with the boys' permission, but they didn't have to give you anything.

They followed and admired you as you looked around. "She sure is a cutie," Changbin muttered, but Seungmin heard and smiled, nudging his friend.

"Careful what you say; there's still a camera here," he said. Changbin rolled his eyes. "I don't care. They can think whatever they want. They're STAYs," his voice was low so only Seungmin could hear. "If they are really our fans, they will support us no matter what, and so will JYP."

Seungmin knew Changbin was right, and he decided to drop the case and followed you when the others found their rooms.

Downstairs was a basement filled with a game room with different games you could play.

You had forgotten for the moment that you weren't really supposed to be doing any of this. You were their manager, but JYP had allowed you to go since you had only a little.

You walked over to the ping pong machine, feeling the call of your childhood as a young teenager playing with her friends in America return.

Playing it with new friends felt good as Chan rounded the table, squeezed your hand in comfort, took up the racket then stood at the ready. You grinned and started playing. You could have been better when you last tried, but this was new. Your ancestors had bestowed your unique gifts, and it was time to use them.

The game took a good turn in your favor, at least, but soon you all were called to the pool that glittered in the warm summer sun.

You all were given clothes appropriate for a pool, and you had somewhat tight-fitting shorts and a t-shirt; you knew better than to complain even though they could've been better.

Your friends immediately noticed your discomfort and did all they could to make you feel better.

They didn't stare even though they had to use all their strength not to. Instead, they complimented you kindly and not like a creep. It seemed to work, and you soon gained enough confidence to go into the water, readying yourself for a game of water volleyball.

You were all divided into teams of your own choosing. You chose to be with Felix, Hyunjin, and Changbin, standing in the middle ready.

Soon enough, the game started and looked good for you and your team. But you had underestimated how hard it was to play in the water as it slowed down your jumps and shots. But you had fun even though the water made you soaked.

Suddenly, you lost your footing and went under with a yelp of surprise. The boys laughed, not mockingly, but because you looked funny when you came up again. You let yourself join in their ruckus and shook your head to clear any water from your hair. It didn't work, and soon you were just as wet as the rest of them, hair clinging to your face.

Soon the game ended, and you all walked up soaking to the bone. An air dryer had been placed inside for you all, and Lee Know was the first to test it out. He howled as the cold wind suddenly hit his already freezing body. "That's cold, not warm!" he complained, and you all laughed as you walked over, turning on the warmth that the team had clearly forgotten. Little did you know that the camera team remembered correctly turning the air dryer. They just wanted that even on your vacation, you would have to do some work for these guys. It was cruel, but as long as you nor the boys knew, they would be safe.

- ❈ -

The fun continued, and you had never had so much fun before.

Stray Kids are truly some of the best friends you've ever had.

It's lovely to have friends who are always there for you. Even now, when few cameras are around, they act like they know they can't fully be themselves.

You want them to know they can be themselves with you. However, the team or staff, as you like to call them, aren't pleased that you've grown so close to Stray Kids. They know that it won't be long before the professional relationship breaks, and you will start to have something more intimate.

Staff hoped that by giving you choices to do, you wouldn't be all up in Stray Kids, but the opposite happened. Stray Kids sought you out and brought you to their activities, even though you knew you had other things to do. "It's vacation!" Felix complained when you said no to a karaoke session with him because he had to ensure everything was ready for the following events.

"I know, and I'm sorry, Lix, but I do have to work. I'm your manager, remember?" You reminded him, gently nudging him toward the basement where his friends were having fun.

But he wouldn't budge. He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted defiantly. "No," he barked, and you flinched, unused to his sharp tone. He saw that and reached out to calm you. "Sorry," he whispered. Unseen by the cameras, the staff was gritting their teeth, especially a young female named T'an Yi. She had been in love with Felix since she started working here for them. However, she hadn't told anyone about her love, and she wanted it to stay that way. Idols and their staff weren't allowed to have relationships other than friends, but it seemed you cared little about that and continued to cross boundaries.

But you were making it hard for her to keep herself steeled. She gave her best friend and the top staff Kyon Ho-Jung a pleading glance. "Ask them to stop, please, Kyo," she pleaded. But Kyo shook her head. "I cannot interfere now. We are rolling. I will have to talk to them later on."

Yi sighed and shook her head, angry, yet she had to keep it down.

You and Felix stopped holding onto each other after you said you would come with him, but he and the boys had to let you do your chores tomorrow. He promised he would, but even you knew he couldn't let himself be distanced from you for a minute. He loved you too much.

- ❈ -

You and the boys can choose what ingredients you want for dinner tonight.

You guys were all arranged to go somewhere, but not all together. I.N. went first, then Seungmin, then Lee Know, and then you and Felix. After that, Chan came, and then Hyunjin seemed to be feeling the pressure of being last. You felt bad to see his curious yet doubtful expression and wanted to help him, but you held back and instead sent telepathic messages through your eyes. Your mind was working, and in fact, a few notes passed through, but Hyunjin hadn't filtered his thoughts, and you found yourself on the main course in his brain. You kept quiet and smiled when he snapped his head and looked at you. It was as if he felt your presence, which would be impossible if he weren't a mind reader because mind readers can talk to each other.

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes but chose what you had offered him and walked inside. The boys were happy and high-fived him, but you just patted his shoulder and softly said, "I'm proud of you," He only heard it. While you couldn't know for sure, your voice so close to his ear sent shivers through his body, and he almost wanted to kiss you then and there, but he couldn't. So he just gave you that doubtful look again.

You all started to prepare the food, and you were with Chan in cooking the meat. Chan said he was happy you were with them, and you chuckled and gave him a nudge. "So am I, Chan," you said, using your English to match his cute Aussie accent.

You all started to eat, and your place was in the middle of Chan and Hyunjin. Those two didn't want to leave your side today, nor would Felix. It's cute, but you will ask them about it later.

But it seemed that the boys didn't think that way because soon as you had fallen asleep (not that you knew it, but bear with me), two arms circled aorund your waist and brought you tight against his body. He sighed and kissed your shoulder, his heart hammering in his chest wildly. He really wanted there to be more than just hidden kisses and forgotten touches, but he had to bear what he got. so at late the night, when the moon shone, his eye glittered as he glanced at your peaceful face whispering, "Love you, Jagia I hope you soon will see that we all do" then it was silent.

[therxtking]

Runic had been gone for the better part of the night, and it was deeply worrisome. Her nature was to fly with the wind guided by some mysterious instinctual purpose, who was to say when she'd leave and not come back for days? Weeks? When she'd abandon the ascended rat in favor of higher, more vicious demons once more? For the time she was gone, Sulfur was completely alone. Which he really didn't like. He prowls low and silent in the cover of dark, mane bristled, tail almost tucked. He felt so vulnerable when he was alone. He just wasn't made for it... He was still getting used to the feeling of being above ground and away from his kind, the safety of the hive... He was trying at least. Rather than sleep the night away and cower he'd pushed himself to venture alone. Alone. In the big open world.

The demon had nearly been too scared to hunt. Causing a ruckus would bring unwanted attention. But still, he'd attacked all by himself. He'd at least put an effort in to have consistent blood on his claws and bones in his hoard, to maintain and grow his power with slaughter after slaughter. No glorious foes or razing combat tonight, merely a silent predator in the night snatching quickly. But blood was blood, killing was killing. Baby steps. Sulfur kills a bull moose, two cows, and a calf. He snaps up an alligator in his teeth, that one really freaked him out. And a mountain lion... It was a long, stressful night, but as the sky starts to soften, he makes quick work of bringing everything back to his cave, it took a few trips though, given a single moose was about the size he was. Once everything was laid outside he sets to dragging the bull in to stack the kills until he can properly process the meat. And Runic is home waiting. Oh the relief that washes over him, Sulfur smiles as soft and light as the coming misty morning. The demon drops the bull off to the side as he approaches and kneels to scratch her ears. "There you are." He breathes, the pressure on his ribs lifting some. "Where'd you go, babygirl? You just gonna show up after I bring all the food home? You're not even pregnant anymore." Sulfur coos and laughs quietly, hugging her around the neck and taking such comfort in the soft sturdy animal and steady heartbeat. "Welcome home, good girl." Yes, this was home. She lived here. She wasn't going anywhere, she wouldn't leave him... The caniquus nickers and hugs with her neck reassuringly, licking over his shoulder until he pulls away to go finish bringing in the nights kills. Unlike usual, she doesn't immediately get up to take her pick. Instead, she clicks her teeth and makes her higher pitched 'I want that' trumpet. Sulfur cocks his head. "Oh you're sleepy?" He jeers. "So sleepy, not gonna get up and walk three steps, you want me to hand feed you? I'm starting to think you're getting spoiled over here..." He tsks. "What were you doing all night that's got you so lazy?" Runic snorts and snaps her teeth some more in argument, and shows him exactly why she's not keen on getting up right now. Lifting one wing, She shows Sulfur the six tiny puppies sleeping there. He audibly gasps, and immediately puts a hand over his mouth to be quiet. They were... So small. Each only weighed maybe ten to fifteen pounds. Miniscule compared to their mother who weighed over half a ton... The Khornate slowly sinks to all fours to crawl closer, keeping an eye on Runic to make sure it was alright. She allows him to come right up ton the nest beside her to admire her litter. They didn't even have horn nubs yet. Just... Tiny useless downy wings, round fluffy puppy bodies and floppy ears. Each one was a variant of mottled brownish red. If you left one on the mountainside it would disappear among the rocks and shrubbery. They were so... Fragile. Sulfur found it hard to believe anything so innocent and helpless came from this vicious bitch of a mare, but he keeps that to himself and chooses to scratch her neck and praise her on the beautiful brood. And of course Runic eats up the praise. Before knocking him with a wing and sending the demon to go get her food.

[malfoys-demigod]

The One Where Chandler Takes You In

Chandler x F!Reader

Summary: Chandler lets you sleep in his and Joey's apartment after you had to evacuate yours. Chandler's genuine and over-the-top kindness results in confessing his feelings for you.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: My first Friends fic and it's on Chandler! I hope you like it!

Tag: @bellarkeselection

There was a knock on the door.

“That must be Y/N.” Ross suggested, noticing the clock. So there were times when you’d be late for anything, such as Monica’s daily dinner. But to be two hours late? That was something new.

Monica stood up from her chair from the dining table and walked over to the door saying, “It’s about time you showed up-“

As the door opened, she was met with a messed-up version of yourself, with wet hair, wet clothes, tired eyes, and a self-depreciating smile on your face.

“Hi, everyone.” You greeted the gang, who looked at you with worry.

“Oh my gosh, Y/N, what happened? Are you alright?” Monica gasped, wondering why you were all so relaxed despite looking the opposite.

You laughed at yourself as you entered the apartment, taking the empty seat beside Chandler, “As of tonight, I’m officially homeless! The entire apartment floor happened to have some caught fire. I wasn’t really aware of this until there was water sprinkling over me like crazy from the ceiling. There wasn’t any fire from my end but their sprinklers must’ve been jammed and continued pouring on my room until, well, everything started messing up my place. Hard-headed me didn’t leave the apartment without a few boxes of clothing and other necessary items so yeah, that’s why I look like I showered with my clothes on.”

“That’s terrible, Y/N!” Rachel said in despair, “Where are all your boxes then?”

You gestured to the outside of the apartment with your finger, “Just outside in the hall.” You said in a cool tone.

“How are you so calm about this? You literally have nowhere to go now!” Monica commented, wondering.

“The apartment company made arrangements for us apparently. I just have to call this number,” you said, withdrawing a piece of paper from your jacket and showing it to the gang, “And have them confirm where I’m staying for awhile.”

“Well why don’t you call them now?” Phoebe asked.

You shrugged, listening to her question. You stood up from the dining chair and headed over to the balcony, attempting to call the number.

After a few tries, nobody picked up. You weren’t having this. You turned around and went back inside, now irritated.

“Nobody picked up,” you announced, frowning.

Chandler, who wanted to be the first one with the proposition, proposed, “How about you stay with me, Y/N?” Then stuttered, “I mean with me and Joey? You know, we could take you in for as long as you want, you could take my bed and I could take the couch and it’ll be fine!”

There was a smile that grew on your face, heart melted from the kind gesture of your friend. You placed your hands on your heart, “Aw, Chan, sure, thanks. But I can’t let you take the couch.”

“Why don’t the two of you share the bed then?” Joey whispered to Ross, who chuckled like a child, which Rachel and Monica heard the both of them, rolling their eyes. They all may or may not have thought that Chandler had a thing for you.

“Hey, whatever floats your boat, Y/N,” he agreed, “Do you need help with the boxes?”

“Sure,” you nodded.

—

“Alright, and we’re all set!” Joey said, finally placing the couch into a couch bed.

“Thanks, Joe,” you said, patting him on the shoulder.

You turned around to see Chandler staring at the two of you from the kitchen, to which he started moving away from and towards you since he felt like a creep from the back, “Uh, I guess that’s it for the night. There’s a lot of water in the fridge if you’re thirsty, and if you really need anything, don’t hesitate to knock on my door, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks too, Chandler.”

Joey yawned as he stretched, looking a little tired now. “Well, I’m gonna head to bed. Night, Y/N.”

“Night, Joe!” You waved as he retreated to his bedroom.

Chandler gave you a small and shy wave, “I’ll get going too, see you, Y/N.”

“Sweet dreams, Chandler,” you said, smiling at him. He smiled, turned around, and headed to his room.

When everyone was gone, you tucked yourself into bed and closed your eyes shut with a smile, knowing that you’re being taken care of by your two good friends.

Sometime at 3am, Chandler woke up. He was quite thirsty, which was odd since it was in the middle of the night. He needed to satisfy his body, so he got out of bed and slowly made his way out of his room without making any sound.

As he made baby steps from his bedroom, his eyes darted to the couch-bed. Somehow, he wasn’t in the mood for water anymore. He was curious to check up on you.

He made his way over to you and found you looking like a sleeping beauty. You were dead asleep, but looking so graceful and at peace.

But he knew you could be feeling more comfortable if there was an upgrade to your sleeping situation. He did something he never thought of doing EVER.

He scooped you up from the couch-bed smoothly and made his way to his room. Like the gentleman he was, he placed you on the other side of his bed with ease, placing his blanket over you.

That should do it.

Then he made his way to his side of the bed and closed his eyes. He was at peace. Or at least thought he was.

Five minutes later, he felt your body near his. You were subconsciously snuggling with him, making him feel so flustered about him yet he felt happier.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N.” He murmured to himself, then closed his eyes.

—

Joey woke up to an empty couch-bed as he made his way to get a glass of milk from the fridge. Hm. That was weird. You weren’t the type to wake up early and leave. Well, why would you leave? Your stuff was here. Well, you could be at Monica’s for breakfast but again, it was too early.

An idea popped up in his head. He smiled at himself, hoping he was right. He tip-toed over to Chandler’s door, opening the knob slowly and pushing the door quietly to see you and Chandler, in the same bed together.

He noticed how your arm was spooning over his waist, as his hand was over yours. The both of you look so at peace and so comfortable that Joey wanted to take a picture of you two.

He couldn’t contain himself. Oh man, he had to tell the rest of the gang.

He slowly closed the door and rushed to Monica’s.

—

“YOU WOULD NOT GUESS WHAT GLORIOUS THING HAPPENED OVER AT MY PLACE!” Joey announced himself in a loud tone.

Phoebe, Ross, Monica, and Rachel looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Phoebe guessed, “You had sex with a girl!”

Joey pointed at her, “Good guess, but no!”

“Well, spit it out, Joey!” Monica demanded, now curious since it wasn’t that.

Joey sat in the dining chair with excitement over his jazz hands, “Okay,” he started, “Y/N started her night with sleeping on the couch-bed, right? Then when I woke up, she wasn’t there. So I checked over at Chandler’s room and SHE WAS SPOONING HIM! Oh man, they just looked so cute together, you know, especially with how Chandler likes her, and even his hand was over hers!”

Around the dining table, everyone’s faces became in awe, as they were surprised it finally happened - something between you and Chandler. Rachel’s opened mouth turned into a proud smile, clapping her hands together with joy, “Well that’s just great! I’m so glad something finally happened. Would you know if she went over to him or if he brought her over to his bed?”

Shrugging, Joey shook his head with no answer, “Nah, but I bet he made the first move. I can tell.”

“Well, are they still asleep?” Ross asked

“They should be awake in a few minutes probably,” Joey replied.

—

Over at Chandler and Joey’s apartment, you and Chandler had just woken up at the same time.

As your eyes started to open, you noticed that your surroundings seemed different. You sat up, quickly turning to the side to see Chandler flashing a small, awkward smile at you.

“Oh, Chan,” you said, as your heart was racing, “Did I sleepwalk or something over to your bedroom?”

Chandler sat up properly now, stroking his hair with a small laugh released from his system, “Uh, no,” he replied, “As a matter of fact I carried you to my bed last night since I figured you’d feel more comfortable here. I hope that was alright.”

“Oh, yeah,” you blushed, appreciating his gesture, “It was comfortable, thank you.”

“Of course,” Chandler replied, smiling.

You then looked away casually, not knowing where this conversation could now lead since there was a potential of it becoming dry sooner or later. There was one thing that you wanted to ask though, now that Chandler had done something out of the ordinary for you.

You looked back at him, feeling a bit stunned since he was staring at you this entire time. He then jittered and started murmuring things that you interrupted by shooting the question, “Chan?”

“Yes, Y/N?” He instantly replied, feeling saved from embarrassing himself even more.

Gulping since this may or may not have been an out-of-the-blue question, “I’m just curious but why would you do this for me?”

“Carrying you over to my bed?” He bluntly asked, raising his eyebrow. You shook your head, “No, I mean yes, but everything on top of that, you know - taking me in. I mean, I know Joey wouldn’t carry me over to his bed or quickly be willing to take me in. Either of the girls would’ve done that but you stepped in so genuinely. How come?”

Chandler looked down, feeling guilty but embarrassed at the same time. He started scratching the back of his head, knowing that it had to come out sooner or later.

“I guess it’s because I-I like you, Y/N,” he confessed, looking up to see your reaction with a hint of fear and anticipation in his face, “And you don’t have to reciprocate if you don’t feel the same way but I’d kinda do anything for you whether you like me back or not.”

You were internally gushing so hard that your heart started beating even faster, seeing how Chandler was basically giving you heart eyes right about now. You placed a hand over his shoulder, and another over your chest with a fluttering feeling, “Oh, Chandler, believe it or not, but I like you too actually,” you confessed back with a blush on your cheeks.

There was a wave of relief and happiness that came from Chandler’s body, as he exhaled with pure joy, “Oh boy, really?” He asked, laughing.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “I was probably just better at hiding it, but yeah, I like you Chan. I wished I started the night last night in bed already with you,” you teased. He smirked, gaining confidence to kiss you on the cheek as he said, “We can make up for that and stay in bed for as long as we want instead.”

“What about the gang?” You asked genuinely. He shook his head and threw a hand gesture saying, “Nah, I think Joey can take a hint and should be over there without us right now."

“Alright, I like the sound of that,” you said, laying your head back on the pillow, which Chandler imitated, as the two of you started getting cozied up again.

“As do I.”