#THE DEMON!WHITE AU IS HERE BITCHES

[wulfwynne]

woah i didn't know they was c

chill like that — woah! did anybody just see that!

[bonefall]

It would be funny if people channeled aither Appledusk or Frecklewish for protection against Mapleshade SPECIFICALLY. They protect cats that are haunted by her for no other reason then petty spite.

I lean towards Frecklewish on a more general level because she is spiteful in the dark forest

With Apple I got the idea that it is a sort of unspoken dark secret in river clan since that's where his bloodline is. It just exists as an old ghost story that is told "If you are ever haunted by a ghostly Calico Cat, go to the old apple tree and say a damned man's name three times." And everyone just thinks it as a weird folk story.

Anyways, main point is that ghost curse horror movie Mapleshade is a really good idea

Frecklewish would RELISH the chance the beat the snot out of Mapleshade. Mostly the thing that would stand in the way is that Frecklewish shares no relation to the Applekin and even has a bit of a grudge of her own, but she is totally the sort of person who would put that aside for the chance to beat Maple's face in.

Appledusk could probably be channeled easily, just find a crabapple tree and strip its bark at sunset, but BB!Apple is kind of a pushover. He has a lot of regrets about his life, and hopes for atonement so that he may one day join StarClan. He may have mixed feelings on granting requests.

I'd say that he's good for undoing Maple's curses, but not going to town with her.

Frecklewish is DEFINITELY hard to get ahold of for some reason. You probably need something that adders produce... but if you call for her, she's there immediately.

Not to mention, though, the StarClan cats who are open for invocation. Maybe I should give Stormpaw's Demon a bit of a theme of "information loss" between generations as a result of neglect... Duskwater taught Rainflower how to cope with her curse, but Rainflower did not pass on the information to her own children, and they have to "re-discover" the wisdom that she should have given them.

Will make for a pretty awesome moment when one of them is able to get the attention of Petalstar.

[americanoddysey]

Weaver (Pin-Eye AU playlist)

Hidden Machination - harvo

Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious - The Amazing Devil

overwhelmed - Royal & the Serpent

Touch-Tone Telephone - Lemon Demon

Danse Macabre - The Oh Hellos

Seven Twenty Seven - Natalie Claro

buzzkill - MOTHICA

Kingdom of Welcome Addiction - IAMX

A Sadness Runs Through Him - The Hoosiers

Voices - Groundbreaking

Help - Pink Guy

suffering - Amélie Farren

Close to the Sun - Porcelain Pill

Settle for Less - Red Vox

Puppet Loosely Strung - The Correspondents

The Death Waltz - Tobias Lilja

Adelaide's Trap - The Blasting Company

Little Lost Things - Tobias Lilja

Formless - Arkadiusz Reikowski

Spleen - Ruth White

honestly I probably have the most basic bitch taste in music but I don't care to find out and therefore I have The Best taste in music and no one can convince me otherwise

read pin-eye here!

[smileysuh]

seeing double - TEASER

🌙staring. Johnny & John x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. “As much as I’d love to fuck two of you, I know you’ve always been interested in a threesome with two guys, and we both know I’m too protective to let anyone else touch you. I found this cloning spell and I figured, if there’s one man I can share you with, it’s myself.” 

tw/cw. Threesome, unprotected sex, oral, blow jobs, pussy eating, praise, dirty talk, degradation, y/n calls Johnny daddy twice, John calls y/n whore/slut/bitch once each cuz he's an ass, demonic double John is a bit of a dick, anal fingering, deep throating, spit-roasting/Eiffel tower, double penetration (pussy/mouth), triple penetration (pussy/mouth/finger in ass), spanking, choking, biting, punishment, blindfold/sensory deprivation, big dick Johnny, pussy stretching, John cums on her face, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.9k

🍭 aus. Warlock Johnny, established relationship, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. ya'll thought one Johnny was enough for us, but I give you double John- threesome of the year

The lights flicker out, the room going dark aside from the one black candle burning on the altar.

Then, just as suddenly, the lights turn back on, and your gaze shifts to the switch by the door. Your breath catches as you take in the man standing there, one hand lazily touching the switch. Johnny’s double has appeared, and he’s the one who just turned the lights back on.

“Hi, losers.”

While the new Johnny clone is wearing the same white shirt and black jeans combo your boyfriend has on, this Johnny has dark hair. You’ve always loved your boyfriend’s coloured strands, but there’s something so regal about the dark brown- it sets off the sharp angles of his face, and leaves you breathless.

“Who are you calling losers?” Johnny retorts, closing the Grimiore and turning to face the double at the door.

“I’m calling you two losers,” the clone grins. “You’re a loser for wanting a threesome with yourself, and she’s a loser for agreeing to it.”

“You’re a bit of a dick, aren’t you?” your boyfriend laughs.

“Not any more than you. I’m your double, anything I say or do is something you would say or do, well, it would be if you let your demonic side out more often. You’re so good at keeping that part of you under lock and key, but not tonight. Here I am.” The double pushes off from the wall, approaching your boyfriend. “Don’t be mad if you don’t like what you see.” 

“I’m not mad about what I see,” Johnny says thoughtfully, “I’m just wondering why your hair is so dark. Thought you were supposed to be a clone.”

“My hair is like your demon side, you can try to cover it up, make it lighter, but this spell always knows your true self. Besides, baby thinks I look good with this hair colour,” the clone’s gaze shifts to you, and he flashes you that classic Johnny grin, “isn’t that right, baby?”

“I-” your words get choked in your throat, and you swallow thickly, looking between your boyfriend and his darker double. “Johnny-”

“Another charade to appear nicer,” the clone clicks his tongue. “Your blonde, soft looking boyfriend might go by the name Johnny. But tonight, you’ll call me John.”

☀️ to read the full fic AND 3.7k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or wait till the fic is posted on tumblr November 17th, 2023

🔮 see what’s already available to read on my m.list

there's a limit to the number of people I can tag, respond/reblog to ensure a tag please :)

[bitterrobin]

Things I hate/dislike about Fanon-Damian Wayne

AKA me just bitching about the various icks of Damian portrayals in fanon that range from weirdly racist things to a blatant misunderstanding of the core character.

Whitewashing - not only in art, but in descriptions; making Damian pale or white, an "exact copy of Bruce" and having blue eyes. He'll share features with Bruce of course, but it's rare I see anyone describe him with traits from Talia or Ras or Melisande. Y'know he's still half Arab/Chinese despite Bruce being white. He should have, at the very least, a shade of brown skin and non-blue eyes.

Describing Damian like an animal (hissing, biting, clawing), calling him feral or rabid - I already have a post about how its pretty racist to constantly describe a poc character like this, so I won't go any further here. Also, rabid, really? Anyone who calls Damian that will die by my hand because it's so genuinely ignorant that I just can't excuse it.

Overuse of terms like "Blood Son", gremlin, "Demon Spawn", "Satan" - these spawned completely in fandom and its gotten to the point that I will immediately click off something if its included. Just stop using these as shorthand to describe him or joke about him. Come up with something else, or maybe just don't include Damian in a fic if he's only there to get made fun of.

Connected to the "Blood Son" term, making Damian obsessed with his biological status as Bruce's child and making him demean his adopted siblings/other adopted characters - he's only had a couple instances of this in canon comics. Once, in his introduction in the fight with Tim written by Grant Morrison when his character was still being fleshed out. Again, in a fight with Tim in Red Robin when Damian is mostly being written as an antagonist and not a character of his own. It frustrates me to no end when this is brought up because Damian's status with being Bruce's son has nothing to do with biological connection or genetics. It has everything to do with just being a son of a father that doesn't put any effort to knowing you and seeing him have deep connections to other kids that you have been raised to see as competition, not family.

Constantly having him carry around a sword/katana - this does happen in some comics, but its really not the main weapon he uses as Robin. A good majority of his time as Robin he just used the standard stuff (batarangs, grapple etc). The really aggravating part is when fics insinuate that he'd carry one around in public or in school.

Making Bruce's half of the family his good white saviors, while also making the al Ghuls evil abusers - if you demonize Talia and then prop up Bruce as a good dad who's done nothing wrong to Damian then I'm going to assume that you don't read comics and you don't have a good understanding of Damian's relationship with his parents. If you make Dick or Jason the good protective big brothers while putting down Talia or Ras or Mara, again, I'm going to assume the worst. Dick did not like Damian when they first met. Tim spent most of their time together as Red Robin/Robin hating him. Jason shot Damian point blank in the chest the first meeting they had, and then continued to threaten his life. Damian has never had a great relationship with anyone in the batfamily when he first appeared. Yes, not even Stephanie or Cassandra or Duke. With everyone, it took time for him to be tolerated much less liked or understood. Making them the ones who understood him and babied him from the start ruins his character development and his relationships with them. Only if you're writing an au where Damian is raised by Bruce, then it's excusable but still not the least bit right when handling the al Ghuls.

Making Damian ignorant or plain stupid, especially when comes to white American concepts - Damian is insanely smart. He knows what riddles are. He knows what metaphors are. He knows that Gotham is a city in New Jersey in America, and that American concepts like school clubs and sports teams and cliques and dances exist. Sometimes it sounds you're making Damian intentionally an idiot when you imply he doesn't know what a video game or a tv show is. Just because he grew up sheltered does not mean he's fucking blind. He's a kid who grew up Middle Eastern, not in another planet.

nitpick but Damian calling Bruce "baba" at every turn or throwing in "habibi" when you write ship content - I am not Arabic, but i'd feel the same kind of annoyance if someone wrote Damian calling Bruce "papa" or "padre" all the time, or randomly listing off Spanish endearments in ship fics. In moderation, it can be cute and appreciative. But sometimes it reads like you just discovered a new funny word and you're throwing it around for no reason.

Insisting that Damian should have learned morality or been punished severely by any of the bats when he first showed up - I must stress that none of them did jack shit to teach Damian any kind of morality when he appeared. Bruce met him, yelled at him, fucked off for a mission, came back and then promptly left him behind with Talia before they were presumed dead by explosion. Then Bruce straight up died. Bruce had very little to do with Damian in the early era. Dick, also, didn't really do anything in terms of actually sitting Damian down and explaining the Bat code or just general "killing=bad". He taught Damian to be Robin, and by that process, gradually got through to him about being a hero and a good person. You cannot expect good behavior from a child from the get-go if you've done nothing to teach that child. On that matter then, implying that Damian should have been kicked out of the house or beaten up on behalf of Tim as a form of punishment or a "teaching moment" is genuinely insane. You're going to abuse the already abused ten year old because he hurt your favorite character? Really? You're truly the pinnacle of an adult figure that he should respect /s.

Being annoying about Damian's attitude towards other characters - he's sarcastic and rude on purpose. It's pretty clear from the start to Damian that no one likes him, so he chooses to not like them back. If you cry about him calling Tim names, then I honestly think you don't have a high opinion of Tim at all if you think a seventeen/eighteen year old teenager would be hurt or psychologically scarred by a ten year old calling him a mean name.

Exaggerating Damian's violence and making people terrified of him - calling his fights with Tim "attempted murder" both undermines what murder actually is and undermines Tim's skill levels. The cutting the line incident for example. Obviously the action of cutting it was dangerous, but if you genuinely believe that Tim would have died from it or that he would regard it with any PTSD-level importance is (imo) kind of stupid. We always hear about the actions Damian takes around other characters, but never the canon reaction. In the 2009-2011 era, Tim was angry and annoyed about Damian. Whenever Damian did anything to him, he fought back. He would shoot back remarks, land a blow. Tim wasn't scared of Damian. They didn't even live together long enough for Tim to feel "unsafe in his own home." The second Damian became Robin, Tim left. They never lived in the same house since then, until the reboot, and even then Tim has been pretty independent and Damian has been away from Gotham more often than in it. Same deal applies to Dick and Steph and Jason and Cass, they never took Damian's actions lying down. He's just a mild annoyance to them. In fact, Damian doesn't attack them in their sleep. He doesn't try to kill them every chance he gets. He doesn't plot their demise. Every instance of Damian fighting someone in the family has either been; protective impulse, a reaction to a fight they instigated, or a sparring-type situation where neither of them are taking things seriously.

[reptilian-angel]

The Cafe' Prince & The Killer Cook Pt. 1:

Chapter One - "Egg on your Face" Mega-Omelet

ME: Blitzø, having suffered a the worst day of his life, finds an unexpected silver lining when he awakens inside some random cafe hosted by a sweet (if oddly articulate) little girl, Via and her chef daddy, Stolas (Who looks like Hell on Wheels and cooks just as good, but who gave a shit.)

Later on after this chance encounter, a completely unanticipated offer might just be what Blitzø needs to turn his trashfire of an existence into a lifetime of amazing food, exciting moments and maybe even . . . Love?

Stolitz fluff, food chain puns, good food and healthy doses of angst await you at the Stars & Stir-Ups Cafe’!!! (Yet to be named)

Inspired by Pink Lomito’s ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE Stolitz Cafe’ AU fanart and written with their blessing, so I can only hope this will live up to the hype! (Displayed Below)

Full disclosure, I DO bake as a hobby, but I am NOT a career baker so most of descriptions of any foods mentioned, cooking and otherwise, will totally be written by an author completely in the dark, so please be gentle with any criticisms regarding any of the cooking displayed here. (Also see the end of the chapters for the recipes used, or at least the closest comparisions.)

Get Your knives and forks ready, you sinners & saints, and please enjoy!! I owe nothing!!!

Normal P.O.V.

When Blitzø woke up, he was automatically confused.

He had expected to be face flat, ass up on the shitty, grime covered flour of the bar he had trudged into last night like he had only hours to live. It had been a record-breaking shitty-ass day for him and he decided, like the many, many bitchy broke losers out there who had had their dreams squashed and trampled on like gnats in Hell, to drown his sorrows. Burning $ouls like tissue paper, he had began going for broke, mooching off other patrons and drunkards, earning petty shots in impromptu contests and maybe even performed a small strip tease for a gaggle of succubi and incubi.

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure how it ended, although he did have a vague recollection of plowing his dick into one of the incubi in one of the nasty as fuck bathroom stalls and wondering if the greasy pump soap could be used as lube before fading to black.

Christ on a Pogo stick he had REALLY gotten fucked up, didn’t he?

That said, he wouldn’t have been shocked in the slightest if he had found himself upside down, half- naked and definitely robbed of his wallet and phone in some shady alley at the crack of dawn. Yeah, that would have been normal for him.

Waking up in a plush, fancy-pants booth with a soft, comfortable quilt thrown on top of him was not.

He began leaning up to try and get some sense of where the fuck he was, but everything between his ears immediately started to bitch at him with an acute, relentless thrum that felt even worse than the headaches Moxxie gave him while bitching at him. On a good day.

He gave a low groan, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes in a sorry attempt to dull the throb. He swore everything was hurting, his horns were hurting, his scars were hurting, fuck, even his brand was hurting -

“Fudge.”

That innocent correction almost made him tumble out of the booth. He barely smacked his palms against the floor to keep him from actually falling face flat on its surface. Points for highly trained trapeze instincts. Centering himself, he found a pair of big, bright pink, and admittingly cute eyes of a little owl demon looking right at his.

Even with him being upside-down, he could tell they were a girl; maybe four or six, with a messy nest of long dark hair let loose save a small ponytail tied up on the side of her head with a scrunchie covered with moons and stars and a simple pink jumper with white stars of various sizes printed all over it.

It had taken a second for his hungover brain to figure out she was an owl, the white heart-shaped frame of her face like that of an owl’s a dead giveaway. The way she blinked at him only cemented that conclusion. She blinked calmly at him, despite how fucking weird he was sure he must’ve looked as a middle-aged, hungover, hot mess sleeping in what he just know fully realized was a restaurant booth.

Feeling caught off guard for a number of reasons, he could only respond with, “Sorry?”

The Little owl gave him a reproaching look, or at least as close to one as a toddler could manage. “‘Fudge’. You said it wrong.” She stated in all seriousness. “You’re supposed to say ‘fudge’ when you say the ‘F’ Word. Otherwise, it’s not polite.”

“Says who?” He asked.

“Says my daddy.” She said proudly as if she was referring to Lucifer himself. “He says ‘Politeness is the-” She paused, her face scrunching up in concentration, “- ‘Per-Ah-Get-Ive’ of sensible young demons’.”

He gave her a small smirk. “Oh yeah? And what is that?”

“What’s what?”

“Whatcha just said – Know what it means?”

He had expected her to respond with a "yes" as all little hellspawn do to prove they were just as smart as their parents who most of the time are dumber than the garbage man, and of course be all snooty and snobby about it too.

But, amazingly, she shook her head so much her hair flew in both directions. "Nope! But my daddy taught me that word. Which means it must be a smart grown-up thing to say. My daddy's all grown up and smart so it makes sense to try and apply it to my everyday 'Wing-guess-tics'."

"Uh, 'wing-guess-tics'?" He repeated with a smile.

The little owl nodded. "You know, the way you talk and how you sound to other people. Don't you ever take pride in how you sound towards others less proud of themselves?"

Blitzø sure as hell didn't. In fact, good mood or bad, he couldn't give two shits in a Gluttony Ring brand crapper what every other piece of shit thought about him or the way he talked. Which is exactly what he should tell to this innocent, sassy, too precious for words little oh satan's taint, he was too hungover for this.

Getting up at an old man's pace, he grunted, "I don't really have an answer to that, ow."

Okay, sitting up straight didn't quite stop the ache, but it wasn't harping so badly now.

The little owl made a sad sound. "That's too bad. Everything needs an answer."

"Does it?" He asked while once again pressing into his eyes to try and settle his headache. She gave an affirmative hum.

"They do. Sometimes."

Blitzø gave up trying to squeeze his eyeballs back into his brains and gave a slow roll of his neck, breathing with the small audible stream of cracks that followed. "Yeah, well, sometimes is better than no times I guess." Once his neck didn't feel so stiff, he looked down at the little owl who still was blinking up at him. "Hey kiddo?"

"Yes?"

"Can you, uh . . . Can you tell me where we are right now?" Geez, Blitzø, you need a little kid to tell your dumb, hungover ass where you crashed? Talk about hitting rock bottom.

She giggled like he had just told a funny joke. He admitted, even with a headache, the sound was nice to hear. "You're in our cafe, sir. Mine and Daddy's cafe. You've been here ever since last night."

He felt embarrassment collide with exasperation in a wave that only incensed the pounding in his skull. Grreeeaaat. Now he had to deal with a bitchy dad that could probably make a Karen more bearable. And considering his crappy luck, he could probably give Moxxie a run for his money when it came to whining and botching. Like he didn't have enough of a migraine already.

To distract himself from the imminent ass-chewing, Blitzø decided it was a good time as any to take a quick peek around. In case, things went tits up, he should know how much he could tag with horses and dongs later.

Look all over, he had to admit . . . He was pleasantly surprised.

The cafe was definitely a little ritzier than almost every other diner or bistro in Pride, at least the ones run by imps or sinners. It wasn't an 'in-your-face-so-suck-it-bitches' bourgeois nightmare that you found on the cover of rich people magazines, but it was still easy to smell the $oils that had been burned to buy the number of furniture and appliances that filled it. Pristine designer steel tables, floors tiles so clean you could eat off of them, cushy warm booths like the one he was sitting in that felt comfy enough to be small bed; yeah, this place made the local Hellbucks look like a gas station men's room (Which was also, coincidentally, one of the many places he would periodically wind up in after a bender).

He could probably make off with one of the tablecloths - Made with actual fucking linen, not rag or crappy burlap - And the money he would get for it would easily pay off his non-existent mortgage.

The walls, covered in perfectly intact, shiny wallpaper that was neither covered in mildew nor aged and peeling, colored the interior with a tasteful cream and vanilla striped pattern. Each dark strip of cream had subtle motifs of shooting stars, little crescent moons and cheery spiraling suns. The cushions seated on each chair and the fabrics of the booths were royal blue and spotted with muted violet stars, all differing sizes, each cleaner than the back seat of an Imp City taxi cab. Plus, no springs popping up to try and fuck him in his little red hole.

He then noticed the bar. A quaint but spacious counter as long as Blitzø's body and tail combined, a simple but pricey cash register at one end, with matching leather stools lined up perfectly beneath it. A large glass case half the size of his van sat at the other end, the inside holding shelves of numerous plates of decadent-looking desserts and pastries that drew an expectant grumble from his stomach.

It wasn't his fault, the last thing Blitzø remembered having that was even close to food was some outdated peanuts and the olives he wiped from some douche who had ordered nothing but martinis that were drier than Wraith in a heatwave.

And he normally hated olives, Christ, he must've been fucked up to devour those things, pit and all. Fuck, did I bang the guy who ordered then too?

Okay, not the priority right now, Blitzø. Especially with the cute little kid in front of you whose dad is definitely gonna throw you out on your ass the minute he sees you -

"Oh! Daddy's awake! Good morning, daddy!"

Fuck.

Blitzø jerked his head up at her cheerful greeting, opening his mouth if only to curse at how his head throbbed in response -

— Only for it to immediately die when he caught sight of "Daddy" coming into the cafe'.

Fuck him twice.

The demon that had stepped into his view was, hands down and pants down if his belt was loosened, one of the most gorgeous demons he had seen.

And the tallest, Jesus Christ.

The owl demon was as tall as a tree, with legs for days ending in jet black talons that clicked delicately against the immaculately clean tiles as he strode over. His body was much, much thinner than Blitzø had expected, delicate and lithe with sinfully svelte curves around his well-rounded hips that he felt an instant, barely concealed urge to wrap his legs around and squeeze. His upper body was just as long, lengthy frail arms that grew like willow branches from his shoulders with dainty but large hands and fingers that reminded him of spider legs as they moved and were just as dark as his feet. They were probably as soft as that little fluff of feathers that peeked out on his chest.

Looking at his face, he was slightly taken aback at the sight of not one but two pairs of eyes peering back, although the second pair were smaller and placed higher on his forehead, just as wide and bright as Via's, but instead of pink they shone with crimson and were as opaque as a ruby. It was obvious who this little girl got her looks from the most; the same dark spot at the tip of his beak, and the same shade of grey blue feathers, only his grew darker in hue as they climbed up his very lean throat, combed into a neat and very trim style that clearly was given a lot of attention. The only blemish to it would be the bold streak of grey that cut through the feathers which easily gave away his age, but somehow that had actually improved his looks as it contrasted the young (and pretty) features of his face.

His outfit wasn’t too extraordinary but still, Blitzø felt himself growing warm at the sight of the white button up dress shirt and the open cranberry pink waistcoat the owl was currently snapping shut dexterously and simple dark slacks that hugged his legs perfectly.

Fuck. I was once woken up with V wearing lingerie that was made pretty much just string but this guy is dressed like a fucking waiter and I wanna lay him flat on the counter.

Blitzø was suddenly that much more thankful for the blanket covering his lap, because he was sure feeling the telltale signs of a growing boner.

Oh well, he was sure it would go away once this guy started to whine about having to deal with a drunken piece of shit first thing in the morning -

The tall owl, even with the slightest of sleep still clinging to it, smiled warmly and brightly at his daughter. “Good morning, my Owlette.” Blitzø felt himself once again be knocked off guard by his chocolaty, silky tenor voice, the sound of it sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

Fuckhim three times, he sounded hot too. Satan, this sucked.

The owl’s pleasant chuckle only added to Blitzø;s horny chagrin. “I see you beat me down to the cafe’ today. I hope you slept well, my Starfire.”

The little “Starfire” nodded happily. “I slept good, Daddy! And so did our guest!” She gestured innocently at the imp, who then tensed at being put on the spot by a kid. “When I came down to check on him, he was snoozing like a kitten!”

Blitzø, of course, made a face. A kitten?

It went unnoticed by the little owl, but not by her father who gave her a stern, but still soft look. “Via,” He started. “You didn’t disturb our guest while he was sleeping, did you?”

“Via” quickly shook her head, he feathers swinging side to side in a flurry. “Mh-mm! No, Daddy, I promise I didn’t! I was real quiet until he woke up and said the bad thing wrong.”

He blinked at her. “The ‘bad’ word?”

“One of the words that Mummy used to -” He explanation was abruptly cut off by her father’s wincing and his hands waving the universal sign for stop. “O-oh, alright, alright, sweetie, I understand, no need to go further!”

Blitzø watched them quietly.

Huh. So pretty boy had post-marital troubles with the little former wifey, huh?

Yeah, that made sense. Aside from his friend’s, Blitzø had yet to see any marriage that wasn’t one step away to instating the “death do us part” vow.

This guy must have gotten out while the getting was still good. But not without a few licks dealt, judging by the signs of wariness on his face.

He mentally sighed. Alright the hottie daddy knows you’re here and first impression has clearly gone to shit so, get ready for take two, dumbass.

Blitzø, deciding that jokes was the way to go in a pinch, then said casually. “I guess ‘Mummy’ wasn’t a ‘fudge’ kinda girl.” He then put on his best smile as he looked straight on at the pretty owl. “Me, personally, always liked the mine with plenty of nuts.”

As smooth as it sounded, he still cringed on the inside. Oof, Blitzø, how lame do you sound right now?

However, to Blitzø’s surprise and relief, the innuendo did not go unnoticed by the only other adult in the cafe’. Both sets of eyes went wide and the haggardness on his face was instantly washed away with a swift, prominent pink flush that Blitzø definitely liked seeing. Next to Via, it was probably the cutest thing he saw this morning. It certainly took the edge off the ass-chewing he was sure to get.

Usually, anytime he cracked any sex jokes around others, he was almost immediately told off by whatever prude or asshole or Karen was in the vicinity (i.e. Moxxie) and who clearly had no sense of good humor. (Like they didn’t start humping on each other’s earlobes the second every one’s back was turned like the hypocrites they were.)

Anybody else who didn’t was either not giving two shits or just as eager to talk dirty after a line up of shots.

But this bird seem reasonably sober. But then again, judging by his frame, he was probably the type of demon to go for light drinks like martinis or cocktails rather than tequila or beezlejuice. Considering the little girl now running up to him and hugging his shins, it was more than likely. He had the bitter experience of always dealing with a parent more often found nursing a hangover rather than an infant and it was an all around shitty experience he had no wish to repeat.

However, right now, he wouldn’t mind getting another peek of that cute ass blush as the bird briefly ducked down to scoop up into his arms. “W-well,” He started, “It’s certainly good to see you awake, Mister . . . ?”

“Name’s Blitzø. The “O” is silent.” Blitzø stated without missing a beat.

The owl blinked. “What ‘o’?”

“Exactly.” Blitzø nodded without thinking and once again, groaned in pain as everything from the neck up throbbed.

“Oh dear, hangover not quite remedied yet?”

Blitzø hissed out a breath. “Yeah, that’s a big fat fff-fudgin’ no.” He smirked weakly at Via’s approving nod. “I feel like I decided to go dumpster-diving outside the nearest Sinnabon’s for a midnight snack-run.” His empty stomach than made itself known by giving an impatient grumble. “And it looks like I’m up for round two so I think it’s about time I get outta here.”

The owl blinked again. “I’m sorry?”

Blitzø carefully climbed out of his improvised bed and unsure of what to do, opted to take apart the bedding and fold it as neatly as he could. “Yeah, I know, I know, I should’ve been out of here hours ago, I get it. Satan knows no-one wants to deal with a hungover dumb-a first thing in the morning. I know I wouldn’t, plus you gotta kid here and I can’t imagine you want some strange weirdo around your baby-girl so I better clear out before -”

The quilt literally rising out of his hands cut him off like a record scratch. The fuck-?

He watched cow-eyed as some kind of blue sparkly whatsit energy surrounded the quilt and untangled the lump he had been making a mess out of. It than began folding itself in a much more professional fashion than his was and as soon as it finished, it levitated right over his head and towards the guys who, judging by the ethereal sheen wrapped around his talons, was making it.

“Mr. Blitzø,” He started calmly. “As the owner of a cafe’, I have often had ‘strange weirdos’ coming in and going out from here every day. Thankfully, most of them are courteous enough to show up around working hours, but I am no stranger to any who who wander in from the late-night crowd, which I’m assuming is where you come from.” His tone wasn’t accusing but Blitzø still frowned at the teasing lilt he definitely heard.

“As for my little Starfire,” The bird continued, nuzzling his daughter on the cheek which earned a giggle. “Via, I like to think at least, is an excellent judge of character, especially more so with strangers. So, if she thinks that you’re trustworthy then that’s more than enough reason to let you stay.” With a twirl of his talon, he sent the quilt through the door leading upstairs to, whatever the fuck it led to as he set Via down on one of the stools after a quick, dramatic spin that earned him another giggle. “At least, long enough for us to feed you a decent breakfast.”

That last bit was definitely NOT what Blitzø thought he’d hear. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Oh certainly, after you’ve been given food of actual substance to eat instead of the leftover, surely bacteria-ridden remains scrounged from a random dumpster.” The big bastard responded blithely as he made his way around the counter, to where Blitzø finally noticed the fancy-looking coffeemaker that made him feel more broke-ass than he already was. “But first, I believe refreshments are in order. Would you prefer coffee or tea?”

The asshole part of him wanted to deliver a pissy comeback at the offer. He was a grown-ass man, more than capable of getting his own food, fuck you very much and no trust-fund, (sexy) long-legged prick had the right to tell him what was okay for him to eat or not – Moxxie already got his ass enough about that, he didn’t need anyone else doing that shit.

Big bitch was probably trying to keep him here long enough to call the cops on him the minute his back was turned so he could stick him with some BS robbery charges just for shits and giggles. Which had happened to him before due to more than one nut-job Karen and/or Kevin.

And of course, since it was fucking Hell, there was only a certain amount of times that you could get arrested and get bailed out before the taxpayers think to simply say “Fuck it” and just take your money and never bother to find your cell keys.

That in mind, he was so not in the mood to bust out of prison again, that one stint in Greed was enough for the next five years.

Well, fuck this bird. The front door was right there and he was not gonna have to put up with whatever bullshit this guy was -

His stomach halted his would-be flipping-the-bird-at-the-bird-on-the-way-out escape with a rumble even louder and more impatient than before. The tell-tale smell of brewing coffee didn’t do anything to help quell it. And damn, did it smell good . . .

. . . . . . Oh, forget it, they dump that dumpster every other day and he was too hungover to spare the effort to drive. Or Look for his van. Or try to remember the name of the club he was at.

“. . . I usually have iced coffee. But right now, I’ll take a regular coffee, as black as blood.”

That request was responded to with a humored smile. “I myself usually take it black as sin, but I’m always up for a challenge.” Turning to the way too complicated than should be normal looking, coffee-making monstrosity, he also added, “Also, forgive me.”

“For what?” Blitzø asked as he came closer to the bar. This close, he could now spot a simplistic yet obviously custom-designed hotplate big enough to fit enough food for five people, flat black surface on one side and a classic stove-top on the other.

“For not introducing myself properly earlier.” A clean, see-through glass coffee pot that Blitzø didn’t even see him pull out appeared in his hand as he whipped out a coffee filter so finely made it looked more like a hankie, bypassing the coffee maker completely. “I’m Stolas, owner of this cafe’ as well as Chef and Barista. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my daughter, Octavia, my darling little helper.”

“Daddy says I’m his ‘Suzy Chef’!” Via, also now known as “Octavia”, chirped proudly. Before Blitzø took a seat on one of the stools, he moved as to help her up but she shook her head. Gripping the crank under the seat, she pulled it up and down like a desk chair’s until the seat was low enough for her to climb up. He watched in bemusement as she then adjusted the seat back up. Clearly, they were built with the varying heights of Hell’s diverse demographic in mind.

Not bad thinking, Blitzø had to admit.

“Indeed you are, my Owlette.” Stolas chuckled. Having placed the filter inside a clenex wrapped around a chic-looking coffee pot, he placed a silver carafe onto the stove-top side of the hotplate and flipping the switch. Taking out a bag of coffee grounds that smelled fucking fantastic. “She and I have been running this little cafe’ for about four months now. And if I may so, we’re doing rather well. Granted, we’re not millionaires but I’m certainly not complaining.”

In almost no time at all, the carafe’ started whistling sharply. Stolas took it off and replaced it with a small skillet that Blitzø didn’t see being pulled out either, only to stare unabashedly at the medley of cheeses, meats, veggies and eggs that literally flew in from the entry to what he guessed was the kitchen like it was something of out of a kid’s movie. He knew Via giggling at his face but he forgoed responding to that, as while Stolas attended to the coffee pot, a bottle of oil floated over to the skillet and poured a delicate amount inside with two slices of butter following suite. “. . . Uh, yeah, if you’re good at something, you should capitalize.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not really so much about the money as it is the business of cooking itself.” Stolas said earnestly as he dumped the grounds into the filter and sweeped up the carafe to pour in the hot water in one fluid motion. “I find that this line of work gives me much more gratification than that of my previous occupation.”

“Oh, what was that? Real estate spokesman? Attorney? Phone seee-” Blitzø was instantly reminded of Via’s presence as the little girl hummed happily while folding and unfolding a napkin she plucked from the napkin holder closest to them. “-eeecrecy operator?”

If Stolas noticed the near slip-up, he didn’t comment on it. “No, I’m afraid. Simply one of the cogs of the crumbling, over-heated machine that is known as Hell’s government.” While the skillet started to pop and sizzle, the owl than summoned a sizable knife to finely chop one onion to join the oil and butter. As the coffee grounds were left to bloom, Stolas made quite a show of crumbling up a thick sausage into bits with one hand while simultaneously conjuring an actual clutch of flames in the other hand, selecting a few strips of bacon to cook and crisp in a matter of seconds. Most likely to show off for Blitzø and his daughter who “oohed” at the sight.

Admittedly, Blitzø was a little impressed too, but he’d be fucked by a mime before he ever let on. “Geez, playin’ it up a bit, don’t ya think?”

“Perhaps a bit.” Stolas admitted, not so sorry in the slightest. “But compared to how stoic and quiet I had used to be, I relish any chance to ‘play it up’.” Having deemed the bacon thoroughly cooked, which it definitely was going by the smell, he extinguished the flames and set the crispy strips onto a cutting board for a magicked knife to chop up. Washing his hands in a small sink set by the hotplate, he gestured towards the enchanted parade of flying ingredients, allowing three eggs to gently land on the counter.

Blitzø, at this point, had taken his eyes away from the free magic show in front of him, cool as it was, to quietly observe Stolas’s shapely ass as he bent over to retrieve something from one of the lower cabinet.

Hmm. He could feel the tip of his tail flicking in appreciation. Guess the cake wasn’t only in good in the cases.

He tried to keep ogling as unnoticeable as possible as he asked. “Old job sucked that bad, huh?”

“Oh, abominably so.” Stolas groaned as he fished around in the cabinet obliviously. Eventually, he made a small sound of triumph as he located his prize; a small mixing bowl which he then set on the counter next to the eggs. A crooked finger brought a whisk right into his hand just as all three eggs were lifted and cracked into the bowl and the shells were tossed away. “And all I can say is that I’m bloody well glad that it’s behind me.”

“And now Daddy gets to be the bestest chef in all of Hell!” Via proclaimed, which was rewarded with a loving smile.

“Well, I certainly try my best.” He said cheerfully. He made sure to keep close attention to the carafe’ as it poured more water into the now ready coffee grounds as he beat the eggs thoroughly. As dark, fresh coffee began to drip into the pot, he set the bowl aside to neatly dish the sausage and bacon into the skillet. “I don’t know if anything I make will win any awards, but I wouldn’t mind if they didn’t. As long as I have my Via and this cafe’, I’ll be happy.”

Those words, despite himself, left a deep pit in Blitzø’s stomach.

He was all too familiar with the feeling to know that it wasn’t hunger.

And the cause of it was the warm translucent air wafting around in the little cafe’ that was more potent than the coffee.

And more pointedly, how out of place he felt to even be watching it.

He felt his claws clench the leather of his seat, the fabric creaking softly in response to his tightening grip. The pit felt like it was growing larger, making his shoulders tense. He found himself staring full-on at the clean surface of the bartop and tried to ignore the itch of his spines going erect. For the next few minutes, all that was heard was the sizzling and firecracker-like popping of the skillet as the eggs were poured in, the repetitive sound of coffee dripping and Via humming as she tried to fold her napkin into something other than a lopsided square.

Blitzø took a deep breath through his nose, his lips sputtering a bit like a horse’s (Didn’t he wish) as he exhaled.

“. . . Look, I’m . . . ” He paused a moment to think his words over carefully. The last thing he felt like doing right now was to sound an utter dickhead to the guy who was making him a hot meal for a total stranger.

No telling if he was the type to spit in on the plates of assholes who deserved it.

“. . . I’m sorry for, uhm, for having you make deal with me first thing in the morning.” He managed to get out rather lamely.

He wasn’t sure if the bird heard him. But that didn’t stop him from continuing. “I . . . I had a really, really real sh- crappy day yesterday, and – And I just needed to blow off a little steam.”

Images started to flash unbidden in his head. Of zeroes, of bottles, of bitter looks and smashed frames only made everything in Blitzø had been able to blissfully ignore up until that moment, then chose to rear its ugly head making him let out a barely concealed grunt. “. . . Point is, I-I’m sorry for screwing up your day and -”

He was interrupted by a good-sized mug being set calmly before him. He started as the smell of the dark roast curling in soft puffs and into his nostrils, the scent heavenly and already mending the throb of his head – only to be taken aback at the feel of a large, plush-soft hand petting the space between his horns in a comforting rub.

It took every single inch of Blitzø not to either smack the hand away or bite it off on sheer impulse.

He looked up and instead of what he thought for damn sure was going to be a patronizing sneer, – Because how else would any prick look after patting an imp’s head like a puppy’s? - Stolas’s face was as soft and reassuring as the smile on his beak.

A smile filled with nothing but understanding and warmth.

Sweet Lucifer, when was the last tim anyone had smiled at him like that?

“No apologies are need here, Mister Blitzø.” Stolas said simply. No hint of bullshit. “Nothing’s been broken, nothing’s been ruined. So please, don’t worry. I’m not a demon so easily rattled. Especially by lovely surprises such as yourself.”

. . . . Blitzø blamed the warmth he felt tingling on his cheeks on the steam coming from the mug.

Stolas didn’t comment on it, but he was sure that he heard some not very subtle amusement in his voice as he turned back to his cooking. “Would you like for me to add some peppers to dish? They were freshly picked this morning and I’m sure that they’ll taste wonderfully with the eggs.”

“UH-” Blitzø grabbed the mug and pretended to study it to keep himself from doing anything else dumb. “Y-yeah, sure, whatever, go nuts. I’m good with whatever.”

“Marvelous! I’ll add some as soon as the eggs have cooked for a bit.” Stolas said cheerfully. Blitzø muttered a “yeah, whatever” to his back as the owl reached from some green and red peppers big enough for Via to hold in both of her hands. He then made a small hoot that Blitzø, even with how off-kilter he felt at the moment, found cute. “Oh, and let me know how the coffee is, please. I’m trying a new blend I finally managed to put together a few days ago and I’d love to hear your opinion.”

Blitzø blinked at that. “Wha-? You mean this isn’t instant?”

Stolas shook his head. “Oh no. I try my best to use fresh items whenever I cook. Not that I have anything against instant or frozen food, but, as a chef, I find it almost like cheating if I’m not as authentic for my customers. The last thing I want is to have our cafe’ be mistaken for another Twink Trip or Hexxan.”

Blitzø would have taken a shot at that remark. Namely how if you loaded up gas station coffee with a fuckton of sugar, cream, and booze, it didn’t matter about the quality ‘cause who would give that much of a damn about dirty bean water -

That is, had he not taken a sip out of his mug.

It took a moment of peering down at his “coffee” to think up a much more direct response. “. . . . This is the best damn cup of coffee I ever had.”

“Thank you!” Stolas accepted the compliment cheerily. I admit it took much longer to properly cultivate and grow the beans for it than I had originally anticipated. I mean, I already knew the process was intricate but it’s a whole other experience when you actually attempt it yourself.” Stolas gave a weak chuckle as he prodded at the eggs simmering in the skillet. “I’ve lost count of the amount of times I almost blew up my grinder or ruined my insides.”

Blitzø, taking a much larger sip of his coffee hummed appreciatively. “Yeah, bad coffee can f- trip you up.” He knew that to be true. He once had to get his stomach pumped from drinking brew made by some dumbshit in his RV. That experience wasn’t really as painful as the telling-off Moxxie gave him afterwards. Little bitch always had act like he was right.

He took another big gulp. “You did good, though. Five stars.”

It wasn’t blind praise. Blitzø never bullshitted how he felt about what he drank and ate, (Much to Moxxie’s, Fizz’s, his Sunday Barista or, really, anyone’s annoyance) and the coffee was no exception; heavy and crisp with a balanced pairing of earthy and floral notes, the acidity like berries that left plenty of room for flavor instead of just tang. And the aftertaste didn’t linger like secondhand smoke, it left gradually with a mellow sheen that he didn’t mind in the slightest. Even though he was more an iced coffee guy, this was a kind of coffee Blitzø could see himself drinking again. When he wasn’t hungover, that is.

“Well, I’m thrilled to hear that, Mister Blitzø. Thank you.” Stolas responded gratefully.

By now, he had placed a lid over the eggs to let them simmer which allowed him to focus on chopping up the peppers. The imp assumed that had all he had been cutting up before Stolas turned to delicately slide a plate baring an apple that had been sliced in a way that the core stood erect as a tower with the slices spread open like a flower bloom. Before he can ask how the hell he did that so fast, Via chirped happily before plucking one slice and biting into it with a thank you.

Blitzø found her delight over the piece of fruit adorable, which the baby owl took as an invitation to pluck another slice and offer it to him with a smile. Satan, could this kid get any cuter?

He took the offered slice with a cheeky grin. Only to quickly toss it in the air and catch it with his tongue like an iguana’s, adding a “Bleh!” just for laughs, for which he earned a round of giggles from Via. He had almost missed by being blindsided by the cinnamon and spice flavor that had been baked into it. It had to have been made that very morning if the warmth and freshness of the slice was anything to go by, allowing the fruit to melt orgasmically well into his taste-buds. Wow.

He and Via had had unanimously agreed to split the apple between them, with no objections from Stolas as he busied himself with divvying up the vegetables and summoning other ingredients from the kitchen to prepare accordingly. Via filled up most of the time with chattering on innocently about little things, how funny her dream was last night, how home-school was “five times better than private school as there were less big dummy poop-heads” - Blitzø almost choked on a slice while Stolas lightly admonished her about “language” - And how her daddy once made her the bestest cake ever in the in the whole wide world for her fifth birthday. Blitzø, for as sweet as he found her daughterly praise, had to swallow the gag when she started going on about the “tasty” mouse chunks Stolas had added.

Bird or no, eating mice for Blitzø was a flat out no.

A sudden, horrifying though than popped into his head. Was Stolas going to add mice to his food?

Like mouse sausage? Mice bacon? Rat peppers? Was that a thing?! Or was he just pulling a Moxxie and asking dumbass question?

. . . Probably just being a Moxxie.

His internal debate was cut short by something else being set before him. A damn good-looking something.

An omelet the size of Blitzø’s fist lay before him, hot and steaming and straight from the hot plate. Yellow as can be with spots of golden brown, there were no signs of tears of breakage, with a perfect fluffy layer peeking from the folds stuffed with meat, veggies and oozing cheeses. The artsy fucker had even gone the extra mile and draped the top of it with a thin sheet of mozzarella, some garnish and a couple slices of baby tomatoes. Talk about extra.

“There you are, this morning’s special - ‘Egg On Your Face’ Mega-Omelet, with all the fixings and extra cheese for those unwelcome aches and pains. If I’ve done my job right, it should fix you right up.”

“Like magic!” Via dded with a bright smile. Both men chuckled at her.

“Like magic, huh?” Blitzø smirked. Well, I’ll just have to see about that.

Sure, the eggs may have looked good, but Blitzø had learned all too well that food looking good and tasting good were two totally different things.

What looked like a pile of slop to the naked eye could taste just as good as a five morning star meal served Beelzebub herself. The same thing applied to a plate of fancy finger foods that cost the same as a house mortgage but tasted like cardboard in the end. And Blitzø certainly had more than enough exposure to lousy food like that, thank you and fuck you very much, with no wish to repeat it.

Which he hoped he wouldn’t with this monster-omelet before him.

Deciding not to put it off any longer, he picked up his fork and dug the prongs into the soft-cooked eggs, scooping up a decent-sized bite with plenty of pepper, meat and cheese. After a moment’s consideration, he also speared one of the baby tomato slices. He gave the loaded fork a few blows to cool it, because there was no way he was going to down a maybe-shitty breakfast with a burnt tongue.

He stuck the fork in his mouth -

And his mind was BLOWN.

If there was such a thing as a bit of paradise, than these eggs were the mother fucking proof in the pudding. Or omelet, in this case.

The eggs were cooked to perfection; nice and fluffy to where they melt on in his mouth like luscious chocolate from Lust’s first class bakeries. And the flavor was like a parade in his mouth, from the salty onions, the crisp tomato and the sweet peppers, the numerous flavors sucker-punched his sense of taste without overwhelming the presence of the eggs. The meat inside was spectacular too, the bacon was at the optimum point between chewy and crispy, and the sausage was deliciously flavorful and greasy. His kind of meat, with the right amount of salt and black pepper.

He could barely hold down the pleasurable moan, but did nothing to stop all the muscles in his body from going lax.

Man, fuck trying to go to heaven, the key to fucking Eden’s Gate was right in his head hole.

A bemused coo. “So I take it you like it?”

Blitzø taste-jizzed mind abruptly snapped back into focus. Stolas’s beak was curled into a big, smug-ass grin that made his own fault in to a frown. The owl simply looked at him expectant. Dammit, if the kid weren’t here, he would have gladly told the bird exactly where to shove that grin.

Instead, he gave a disgruntled growl. “Yea, it’s . . . okay.”

Most chefs would have promptly gotten offended by such a dry appraisal of their “masterpieces”, especially if it came from an “uncultured swine” such as him.

But once again, Stolas surprised him by delivering a pleased smile in lieu of a hissy fit. “Well, I’m glad you like it. Eat up now, or it’ll get cold.”

Blitzø chose not to shoot off a shitty comeback, despite being rankled by the “order”. He took out his bubbling frustrations out on his food, picking up the plate and bringing it close enough to begin shoveling the omelet into his mouth like a starving man.

The petty, spiteful gremlin that was roughly, meeeh, ninety percent of his overall personality hoped that such a messy personality hoped that such a messy display would earn at least, would earn a groan of disgust. Always did the trick when he wanted to annoy Moxxie.

However, much to Blitzø’s complete consternation, the owl just gave a small humored hoot and returned to the hotplate with a single crack or insult. Like he didn’t give two shits about his bad manners.

Blitzø internally growled. What an ASS.

. . . A pretty ass, but still.

“I’m glad you’re pleased by my cooking skills.” The big bastard (Yes, Blitzø was calling him that again, suck it.) said happily, busying by wiping down the skillet while beating a new batch of eggs and sliding two slices of bread into a small old-fashioned toaster. “I have to admit, my main specialty is baking and drinks, but I try my best to expand my range of cuisine when I can.”

Once the yolks and whites were thoroughly whipped, there were poured into the skillet and almost immediately they started to sizzle and bubble from the rewarmed metal. “Unfortunately, I can’t cook the kind of food necessary to run a full-fledged cafe’.”

Blitzø swallowed a sizable bite of egg and pepper before asking, “Can’t you just wiggle your fingers and hocus pocus a steak or something?”

Stolas shook his head. “Alas that’s more Lady Beelzebub’s forte than mine. Even my magic can only do so much. Now if this was a flower shop that would be another matter, but it is what it is.”

“I’m glad it isn’t.” Via piped up. “I love Daddy’s cafe’! And I love helping him cook!”

“And you do such a magnificent job, my Owlette.” Stolas’s praise was followed by a small plate of scrambled eggs encircled by toast cut into the shape of flowers and mice, covered in butter and jam. Via took it with a bright thanks, digging in right away with a sparkly pink fork also provided by Stolas. “But sadly, a cafe’ needs more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk to cater to wider clientele. Not that I’m downplaying your talent as a chef, darling.”

“I’s okay, Daddy.” Via said, crumbs dotted on her beak from biting into one of her toast flowers. “I know it’s only because I’m not big enough to use the stove yet.” Blitzø mirrored her smile as she beamed up at him. “Once I can do that, Daddy said I could make even better dishes just like him.”

“Indeed I will, Starfire.” Stolas affirmed. “But for now, I’ll have to settle for looking for another cook. Sadly though -” Stolas pulled a face. “- There hasn’t been one suitable enough to help me run things here.”

“Yeah, it’s hard running the show solo.” Blitzø agreed. “Sucks even more when you don’t have a good crew to back you up. Don’t know where I’d be with M&M.”

Stolas blinked. “Uhm, ‘M&M’?”

Via blinked too. “Like the candy?”

Blitzø snickered. “Nah, Moxxie and Millie, friends of mine and my emplo-” He cut himself off with a grimace. “Well. Who were supposed to be my employees.”

The sudden downtrodden shift that overcame the imp id not go unnoticed by Stolas. “‘Supposed to be?’ What does that -”

“Don’t ask.” Blitzø said curtly. After a second, he added a little less harshly. “I-I don’t really wanna get into it right now.”

Because if I do, I KNOW I’m just going to get pissed off and do something shitty all over again.

“. . . . Alright then.”

Blitzø could hear it clear as day that the bird bastard had more questions, and would more than likely prefer to bombard him with rapid-fire questions like Moxxie would when he wanted to be particularly annoying. But thank Satan, he looked put off enough to put him off.

Small blessings.

The next few minutes passed in silence. The lull of it broken only by the sounds of silverware hitting the plates as Blitzø and Via ate, the drip of coffee as more was brewed in the pot and the subdued sounds of crunching each time either a somewhat concerned Via offered Blitzø a bite of her toast or, returning the favor, when he offered her a bite of bacon or sausage – He learned quick that she didn’t like peppers so much so he did well to avoid giving her any filled-to-the-brim bites. He could only hoped that the reason she liked it wasn’t because the meat that was in it wasn’t made from rodent.

It probably was, though, because . . . Birds.

Eventually, Blitzø had cleaned his plate, a satisfying weight settling in his stomach, he let out a contented sigh, his headache feeling miles better than almost a half hour before. “Woo, that was good. A frickin’ plus.”

The owl’s smiled chased away some of the terseness from before. “Happy to hear it. It’s always good to get good reviews on new dishes.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Quick question, though.”

“Yes?”

Blitzø pointed at the now empty plate. “Level with me – Was there any mice in that? Because, I get it, you and Via are birds, but I kinda draw the line when it comes to eating plague-carrying little turds.”

Stolas tittered at that. “No, no, I assure you, no lovely vermin of any kind was served to you. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that mice are terrible cures for hangovers.”

“What’s a hangover?” Via asked in that no-filter, childishly clueless way that all little hellspawn did.

Stolas, in a perfectly natural response to such a question, was freeze awkwardly. “O-oh, well, erm-”

Blitzø supplied the answer. “It’s like a really bad stomach bug, but for grown-ups.” Giving the little owl a conspiratorial grin, he added in a fake whisper, “Basically, if you eat too much green stuff, your poop comes out greener than Mammon’s butt.”

Via burst into a peal of little girl laughter that definitely brought an easy diffusion to Stolas’s unease, even earning a couple of barely smothered hoots that were poorly hidden by his hand.

Huh. That was twist.

Usually the parents were scolding him at this point, the usual uptight bullshit spiel about “using such vulgar language in front of their innocent little babies, you demented little firetoad!”

Not that he gave a shit because he was a comic genius, fuckyou, Moxxie.

After a bit, both birds managed to quell their laughter enough for Stolas to gently urge Via to head upstairs and get ready for the day. She agreed without protest, stopping only to allow Blitzø to ruffle her headfeathers as he added, “Gotta look cute for the suckers!” That earned him an admonishing look from Stolas that was weakened by his approving smile.

A smile that only grew bigger when Via caught the imp completely off-guard with an unexpected hug, her tiny arms wrapping swiftly and tightly around his waist, almost sending him falling off his stool. Before he could recover, Via was already heading up the staircase, humming cheerfully all the way.

Stolas’s soft chuckle drew Blitzø out of his shock. “Via has certainly taken a liking to you quickly.”

“Uh, yeah, I-I guess.” Blitzø rubbed at the back of his neck. “Last time I got hugged like that, some piece of shit nicked my wallet to buy thirty Bruiser King gift cards.”

“Oh, that’s a pity.”

“Joke was on him, though, he got food poisoning with the first card he used.”

Stolas hummed approvingly as he poured them both a fresh cup of coffee. “Well, I suppose there is such a thing as karma.”

Blitzø barked out a laugh. “Ha! Yeah, and maybe there’s a God.” He accepted the refilled mug, along with the offered sugar and creamers, and dumped almost each one in like an alcoholic adding liqueur. “Uh, speakin’ of, what do I owe ya?”

Stolas, who had added his own preferred condiments to his coffee in much more moderate manner, paused in his blowing at the steam rising from his mug. “Pardon?”

“What do I owe ya? For the food and coffee.” After a moment, he also added with only a tiny wince of guilt. “And whatever else my drunk ass did to your place before I blacked out.”

By emotionally-traumatized principle, he wouldn’t have asked outright. Often times, being the victim of a classist system that shat on those on the bottom rung, he had been subjected to grossly padded bills and unexpected expenses issued by a good percentage of the “well-to-do” owners of “upstanding establishments” where he wound up spending half the night washing up dishes. Once he got fast enough, and only if neither the food nor the service was worth the lightening of his wallet. Blitzø didn’t hesitate to pull a dine and dash; making escapes either through the bathroom window, the vent, or once through riding one of those fancy dining carts into the kitchen and out the employee entrance that admittingly had been fun to ride . . .

. . . Right up until he learned too late that the entrance opened right up to a three-story staircase with no handrail.

Needless to say, that had been one shitty ride to the hospital, Moxxie lecturing him the whole damn eight miles.

After everything – And he meant everything – in his lower body healed, he opted to hold out on anymore dashing. At least until the little baby-dick whineypuss would get off his fucking back about paying.

That aside, he saw no reason to be the deadbeat bun right now. Not when Stolas had been nothing but polite towards him. Even though he certainly didn’t deserve such kindness . . .

He braced himself for the amount as he took a long sip of his sweetened coffee -

“Oh, you needn’t worry – You don’t owe me a sint.”

Blitzø sputtered into his mug, nearly choking on the brew as he processed the owl’s words. “*Cough* *Cough* *Hack* Blegh! Excuse me?”

“You don’t need to pay me.” Stolas restated. “Like I said, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve been nothing but civil, you are obviously sorry for any offense you think you’ve given – Not that you have, don’t make that face – And more importantly, Via likes you. So I see no reason to change you.”

Blitzø frowned at him. “You’re screwing with me.” He stated flatly.

“I assure you, I am not. Honestly, your praise over your breakfast was payment enough. In all honesty, you were doing me a favor.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t get a chance to try out new recipes on new faces very often, so any new opinions are always appreciated.” Blitzø felt his face fault at the slow, awfully sensual smile the owl sent him. “Especially ones as sublime as yours.”

Blitzø forgoed looking him in the eye, each cerise eye of his hooded and looking at him like he was going to be the next dish for him to devour, choosing instead to chug down half the contents of his mug. Gulping audibly, he mumbled back, “Glad I was such a good guinea pig for you.”

“I prefer the term ‘freelanced taste-taster’, personally.” Stolas retorted politely.

“I don’t want your charity.” Blitzø bit at him.

“Nor am I giving it to you. Like I said, you did me a favor.”

“How do you know I’m not some thieving bastard taking adventure of goody-two-shoes shop owners like you?”

“I have measures set to prevent such an occurrence.”

“I’m an undercover health inspector and you just failed.”

“Now you’re just grasping, dear.”

Blitzø rubbed a hand over his face. “You can’t just -” He let out a frustrated breath. “Look, I get you’re an . . . Okay guy and you are obviously trying to set a good example for your kid. I get that, but I don’t want to be the lasting impression of what to expect when giving out freebies to poor drunken bitches like me. No one should have to deal with that without getting paid, -”

“Mister Blitzø.”

Stolas’s firm tone stopped him with the sharpness of a smacked ruler. His face was stern, but not completely harsh as he eyes were looking at him with a softness that pricked at his chest.

“You. Do. Not. Me. Anything. And when I say something like that, it’s because I mean it with all the sincerity that is implied. It is not just for the sake of looking good in front of Via and certainly not some sort of dastardly ruse to get you to lower your guard. You’ve apologized and you meant it, you’ve been kind towards my daughter and enjoyed my cooking without bias or sarcasm. That said, believe me when I tell that is something I care for much more than any check or bill.”

Stolas sipped at his coffee calmly, making no comment about the for certain mollified expression on his face. “So, please, no more apologies. They are appreciated, but to be honest, after twenty-two of them, it just feels repetitive.”

Blitzø gave him a look. “Sorry what now?”

“Mister Blitzø -”

“Nah, nah, what you just said, the fuck you mean I said sorry twenty-two times?”

Stolas’s beak dropped into a thin line, taking a moment to maybe think his words over before formulating a response, “When Via and I found you last night, you were in a . . . A great deal of distress.” He was clearly trying to more emphatic than judgmental. “You were greatly intoxicated and horridly incoherent. Once I was close enough, all I could hear was you saying sorry over and over.”

Blitzø could feel himself growing hot from the neck up in embarrassment. The apprehensive caution in Stolas’s voice was doing fuck all to help the crashing wave of shame following up like a speeding train.

He didn’t need Stolas to tell him what he was bawling like a baby over.

But, ever the bottom bitch for punishment, asked anyway. “. . . I say what for?”

Stolas then turned sheepish. “O-Oh well, uh-uhm, I don’t quite recall -”

“Bird, I don’t do any of that hee-haw Shit, it’s too early and I’m still hungover and all I’m gonna do is get pissed off now WHAT did I SAY?”

With two sets of eyes, it was easy to see that Blitzø was not going to give up on getting an answer. Stolas sighed softly.

“You made a great deal of apologies to a great deal of people. I didn’t catch every name but, erm, you had quite the list.” He sipped at his mug, stalling for only a minute before continuing.

“You apologized to a miss Mistly for dinging her car door while trying parallel park by a Wacdonald’s, a miss Queen for breaking smashing her one of a kind pirate ship in a bottle instead of the pinata by accident on her birthday, a miss Millie for chipping her favorite ax, a mister Moxxie for making him run all the way to Greed for a single battery for your TV remote, dropping his guitar fourteen times, borrowing his wallet, or more accurately, pinching his wallet to pay for Voxflix twice, a miss Barbie for stealing one of her skirts and ripping it whilst performing a split, I couldn’t really make out what exactly you were apologizing to a “Vee” and a “Fizz” for -”

“Okay!” Blitzø blurted out. “Okay! I get it! I get it! I was a hot mess, no more shit needed, I got it!” He cringed at the indignant crack in his voice. Christ, like he didn’t look enough like a pathetic shit already. He might as well plan to fake his own death again.

You know what they say, fifth time’s the charm.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Stolas’s weak attempt to reassure him only bounced off of the imp like a ping-pong ball. “It really wasn’t. Really, you should have seen me afterwards when I was binge-drinking.”

Blitzø scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you got real frisky from all those white wine spritzers.”

“Actually, I tended to lean more towards absinthe.” Stolas retorted, with no little bit of sass, taking a small bit of gratification from Blitzø’s surprised. “Of course, with how I was knocking back each bottle, you’d almost believe they were Purgerade drinks.”

Blitzø lifted his head from where he had been pressing it into the bartop. “Damn, how many we talkin’?”

“At least two to three on a good night, or whatever was close to that.”

The imp gave a low whistle. “”Fuck me, bird. I get shit-faced after half a bottle, how the fuck are you still standing?”

“At this point, stubbornness and sheer dumb luck, I believe.” Stolas quipped.

That startled enough mirth in Blitzø to actually make him laugh. “Join the club, pal.”

“I fear I cannot, as I have cut back my vigorous drinking to properly attend to Octavia. Leaving my former occupation did wonders for helping me cub the habit.”

“Bosses sucked that bad, huh?”

“Doubly so, considering it was a family business, sort to speak, although, I can assure they were family in name only.”

“Ugh. Preachin’ to the fuckin’ choir – there’s only so much shitty family a bitch could take in one day.”

“That, Mister Blitzø, I can wholeheartedly agree on.”

There were getting off-track. Blitzø bit his lip. “. . . I’m sorry for my shit.”

“For the final time, no more apologizes are necessary.”

He angled his head towards the staircase door. “I probably scared your kid.”

“Via has seen far worse, I assure you. Even when off your cups, you weren’t untoward her in any way, so you can save any of the claims of indecency that you’ve half-heartedly concocted in that crafty little mind of yours.”

“Just let me fuckin’ pay you.”

“I neither require nor want your money and I promise you, should you try to force any $ouls on me, I will promptly set it to aflame.”

“Lilith’s titties, you’re a stubborn bitch.”

“And you are an equally stubborn spendthrift.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not without dinner, if you please.”

Blitzø groaned. “God, we’re gonna keep talking in circles if you don’t just charge me and get it over with. I’m not fucking broke, I have the $ouls, just let me pay you.”

Stolas’s counter remark definitely caught Blitzø unawares. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s done something genuinely kind for you, hasn’t it?”

Blitzø’s hackles rose instantly at the “innocent” statement. “You trying to say something?”

Stolas merely sipped at his coffee. “Just an assessment.”

“Or you being a dickhead.”

“I made you a free breakfast for which I expect nothing in return. I am being absolutely forthright whereas you are choosing not to believe that I have no ulterior motives. Who, might I ask, is being the dickhead here?”

Oh, this smug bitch.

He had wanted to let loose a snarl that would make the owl falter in his not requested charity streak. He felt the urge already rising in his throat, ready to finally tell off this prick who was seriously starting to piss him off . . .

. . . But could only let out a low whine at the exhaustion of prolonging the one-sided argument, the fatigue of a bad night, getting totally smashed and crashing just as hard setting in. Being still half hungover sure as shit was not helping to keep the spark of pride burning.

If anything, Blitzø felt even more tired.

He wanted nothing more than to lay everything out, pay whatever the fucking bird deserved and drag his broke-back ass back home and lick his wounds from last night. And the only thing that was stopping him was getting through to this royally stubborn and feathery (Not to mention pretty soft-looking) bastard of a demon.

“Alright, look – I want to pay you back, but for some weird ass reason, you won’t let me.”

“I think we have perfectly established that.”

“So we got a problem.”

“Which could be solved by you accepting my putting your breakfast on the house.”

“And it should be clear as fuck that ain’t happening.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Blitzø blew a breath of air out of his nose. “I’m not just being an asshole here – I don’t like owing people anything. I’ve been dipping in and out of debts for years, financial and personal. And just that fucking recently I finally managed to pay off a good chunk of them only to literally be screwed over again almost the same fucking day. So now I’m once again edging too damn close to bankruptcy for my liking.”

He gave the owl a flat look. “Meaning I can’t take any chances, such as freebies or random handouts, cuz Charity was just as easily turn into high-interest loans with zero time frames for return payments, unless you want to set up an installment plan that involves cutting out pounds of flesh ever week. Obviously, a guy like me can’t afford to look any more fucked up than he is with a chunk of anything missing.

“All that said, do you see what I’m gettin’ at?”

“. . . . I’m starting to.” Stolas said with a considerate look.

“Satisfaction eased through Blitzø’s frame. “Great. Glad we finally got that -”

“All the same, you needn’t pay me.”

And just like that it was gone.

He growled so sharply it would have destroyed eardrums had he done it inside of headphone speakers. “You fuckin’-”

“But since you won’t accept the gesture,” Stolas interrupted calmly. “How about just doing me a special favor?”

“‘Special favor’?” Blitzø blinked. “What kinda -”

A sound not unlike a light bulb dinged in his thank full-no-longer-as-sore cranium.

Oh.

Oh okay.

He gave a resigned sigh. “Hooookay, look, tootsie hootsie, if you just wanted a quick shag in the back all you had to do was ask. But I gotta warn ya, the place I’ve fucked in was a public bathroom that probably wasn’t cleaned in the last year or two, so I’ll probably need to wipe down the goods with something. Baby wipes would be good if got’em -”

“NO!” A spluttered hoot brought his attention back to Stolas, whose heart-shaped features had turned an almost violent shade of crimson in the span of half a minute. “No! No, no! Not that kind of favor, no! I mean I need your mouth!”

Blitzø gave him a deadpan look. “Yeah, I got that much, relax.”

“No! No! I mean -” Stolas let out a shaky warble before planting his face into his hands while muttering to himself in fit of bashfulness.

Blitzø just sipped at his coffee, waiting for him to spit whatever he wanted to say out. To his credit, he didn’t stare, knowing from his own share of verbal vomiting moments that doing that would just make his embarrassment worse.

Even though he no clue what the fuck he was suddenly so damn worked up about.

I mean, fuck, if I had a sint for each time I said the “wrong” things, I’d be raking in more money more green than Mammon.

A deep breath. “Forgive me, I’m doing this all wrong. I’m trying to offer you a deal. Something, I hope, will mutually beneficial to the both of us.”

The incredulous look on Blitzø’s face was quickly addressed. “Nothing vulgar or dramatic involved, you needn’t worry. Nothing of the sort.” He took another deep breath. “I would like for to come in again, and try my cooking.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Say what now?”

Stolas made a small noise of exasperation. “As I said, I’m still relatively new to running a business dealing with dining and catering and the like. I’m often pushed into having to spontaneously expand my range of techniques and specialties depending on my success. I know I’m capable, but I know that I can’t just rely on my own opinion and preferences alone. Even more so when I’m attempting new dishes. As such, I need an outside opinion.”

The imp blinked. “And yooouuu think that’s me?”

Stolas nodded. “Very much so.”

“Some fucking rando off the street who broke into your private property, was wasted out of his mind and could just as easily rob you blind despite these so-called ‘measures’ you said you have?”

“Not as ‘so-called’ as you say, but yes.”

“Rrrright.” Blitzø rolled his eyes. “Don’tcha have, I dunno other foodie friends, you can ask? Or maybe just wait for some famous food blogger critic douchebag to to come in and give you a rating?”

“None that would trust to be fair or take seriously, or assume my want for approval is really a want for cheap compliments – that I’m desperate enough to give someone license to either be obnoxiously petty or to deliver the best shallow review that procures them a not so low-key invitation to my bedroom.”

Blitzø grunted. “Asshats.”

“You should see how quickly they recoil as soon as they learn of Via.”

“Fuckin’ asshats.”

“Quite.” Stolas affirmed. “And to answer your other question, yes, I do have others whose say I do value, but I’ve heard relying on the biased does not help one’s credibility. I do appreciate the precious few whom I’m fortunate enough to have as friends, but I need a healthy dose of honesty from outside sources to provoke me to experiment and expand myself.”

“And you think that guy is me?” Blitzø repeated, gesturing to himself crudely.

“Of course.”

“Bullshit.”

“Good gracious, and you call me stubborn.”

“It’s not -” He let out a small snarl.

Seriously? He was still keeping this up? Enough was enough.

“Look, I get you’re trying to be nice, I get that. But, trust me, I’m the last fucking guy you want to be nice to let alone have around. Seriously, ask fucking anyone in hearing distance – I’m a right bastard on a good day and a pushy dickhead on a bad one, I’ve fucked up more people than I’ve actually helped and you would have more sense to shoot me rather than invite me over again. I mean, you gotta kid to think about, and -”

Blitzø shook his head. “And you don’t want me messin’ with your business. The one I tried starting flopped before I even got my feet off the ground. Pretty sure that speaks a fuckton for how helpful I can be towards you.”

He could barely ignore the burning sting of truth in that statement.

Saying all the shit that was a constant boiling inside him all out loud sucked.

It sucked balls.

He knew it was better than letting it all rot and fester like he let everything else – But it still sucked.

Fuck what his therapist said about it being being cathartic. He should quit that bitch.

It’s not like he would be able to pay them for much longer anyway.

Blitzø knew he was not the kind of person to be asked to come back. Even the scraps of friends he had managed to hang on to could barely wait for him to leave as soon as he said hello.

Moxxie was the leading example of proving him right. Even when Blitzø actually adhered to his demands of privacy and properly asking for invites to visit, (That Blitzø still found completely anal of him although he bit his lip) Moxxie was adamant to get him out the door before he could even get two fucks in.

Even Millie, Moxxie’s blast and a half of a wife, who was far more accommodating than her whore-back husband, drew the line when it came to his company being longer than necessary.

That was to say fucking nothing about his own flesh and blood.

Barbie Wire, his twin sister, his other half, would sooner see him six feet under before seeing him again.

Cash Buckzo, his father, never asked for him, never wanted him, and made it a point of telling him so straight to his face more than once.

His mother, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . She sure as fuck would have been better off without him.

And his exes? Those who he didn’t remember or couldn’t care to remember, those he never took a chance on because of him being too much of a pussy to try?”

Verosika? It was pretty fucking clear on how that went.

Fizz?

He was never wanted.

He was never missed.

He was never asked to come back.

Not for a visit.

Not for a drink.

Never just to hang and shoot the shit.

He was always tossed away as soon as necessary.

He was always left behind, pushed aside, shoved into the background.

Forgotten.

Dead for all those concerned.

Dead, except in the way he wanted when he was at the lowest he could be.

No one ever missed him.

No one ever wanted him back.

Nobody.

“. . . . I fuck things up more often than I get them right. There’s a pretty good chance if you get involved with me, shit’s gonna go sideways for you too.”

He wasn’t sure if he had muttered that part aloud or not. Not that he gave a shit.

He halfway expected to be asked to repeat himself.

Or maybe Stolas would curse him under his breath for being such a dramatic bitch.

Maybe he would finally cut the bullshit and be real about what the fuck that he really wanted from him.

However, all Blitzø got in response, was a soft touch at his wrist, soft as silk and just as gentle.

Along with two sets of big cerise rose eyes that crinkled gently at the corners as they held his gaze with calmness and sympathy.

And maybe something else, but that could’ve been that whiny, fractured part of himself making up what wasn’t actually there.

“I’ve taken far riskier gambles than trusting a stranger out of the blue, Mister Blitzø.” Stolas spoke in such a comforting voice. “And I have yet to lose from any of them. Perhaps it’s rather cocky to say so, but since my winning streak has yet to be broken, I think you’re a rather good bet to take a chance on.”

The tender smile, that was nothing short of dazzling, he gave Blitzø at the end such a declaration was a damn good seller.

Satan forbid this man ever works for Vox – cause with that smile, he could sell gas station keys like they were the keys to gates of Eden itself. I mean, if his touch alone could send sparks up my arm like he was doing right now. . .

Fuck him if he knew.

The hand causing such a feeling than gave two soft pats to his wrist before lifting away to grab the coffee pot once more, refilling Blitzø’s mug with still steaming java and the exact number of sugars and creams he had diluted it with before.

“So, how does coming in twice, three times a week sound? I usually close the cafe’ around seven since I try to get Octavia in bed by eight thirty on weeknights. If you like to come by over the weekend, I close around six thirty to seven o’clock depending on how busy I get. Except any catering orders or special events, I’m not fussy over whenever you come over. All I ask is that you let me know when you’re coming by in advance so I can have something ready for you. A day or two ahead would be just fine.”

Blitzø, this time, could not find in him to groan loudly in protest to the blatant hardheaded dismissal of the what seemed like hours long argument. The argument he bitterly realized that he couldn’t fight against.

That did nothing to stop him from throwing his head back and scowling at the annoying as shit clean ceiling tiles above them.

“. . . . . . . You really aren’t gonna give this up, are you?” He said after a while.

“I suppose I’m about as bull-headed as you are.”

Blitzø gave a chuffing laugh at that.

Well, fuck.

What was he supposed to do with that?

What could he do with that?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Fuck it, if the worst happened, he could just disappear again, right?

Not likely Stolas would look for him just for a review, right?

. . . . Right.

“. . . . . . . . . . The peppers and onions were both sweet.”

Stolas blinked at him like the owl he was.

Heh. Cute.

“The omelet was good, but it was kinda over-sweetened; I don’t know what kinda onions you added but personally I would use a more subtle kind of onion to help round out the sweetness of the peppers.”

He let this sink in for a moment before continuing, “I remember seeing you add a green pepper so next time I would recommend using a shallot, maybe about half a tablespoon’s worth should be right. A regular tablespoon’s good too if you don’t use too much of the peppers.”

He sipped at his refreshed coffee. “I personally, like some spice in my eggs to help me wake up, so don’t be afraid to throw some in the mix in the future. Like oregano or basil. You don’t have to go crazy with the amount, though, - just about when you’re making the bowl and a few dashes of it on top when ya put it on the plate. It’ll pair well with the tomatoes and not distract you too much from the rest of the food.”

He took a breath. “Coffee’s good, strong enough to double as a chemical peel, everything any caffeine addict is looking for. The aftertaste doesn’t turn me off from drinking the rest and from how it feels going down I am a hundred and fifteen percent sure you’re a nit-pick bitch cuz I taste how finely you ground the beans without turning them to powder. It’s good ya didn’t because that shit’s only good foe about half hour before fighting to keep your eyes open by either shooting up some dope or knocking back enough 66-Hour-Energy drinks to give the Big B a heart attack.”

Shouldn’t he stop? Maybe he was saying too much. Stolas had asked for honesty and Blitzø was doing his best to deliver it with as little jackassery as possible.

Problem was, for Blitzø, jackassery was his default language, according to practically everyone and their fat mom’s. And, most of the time, he didn’t even realize how much he let slip out before he got a sharp crack across the face. Or a knee to the balls.

He chanced a look at Stolas. If he looked upset, he could take it all back. It wasn’t too late, he could still backtrack -

Tiny stars sparked in Stolas’s wide eyes. Small and bright and beautiful, looking every bit like the twinkling little lights his mom would tell stories to him and Barbie back in their childhood. After the circus ring was cleared of trash and the last Hellhorse was tucked in their stall. Back when, even thought hings weren’t easy, everything was okay.

Before everything suddenly wasn’t.

Stolas, upon noticing Blitzø looking at him, instantly grew more flustered in some odd cacophony of joy and mortification, his plumage fluffing up from the top of his crown to the little floof of feathers on his chest. His hands belated came up to smooth them back into place, unfortunately they did little to quell them along with the rosy blush that tinted his face plate into an eye-catching pink.

Damn, this bird was so cute it was unfair.

The anxious itch in his chest was put to ease right there and then.

This couldn’t actually work, could it?

. . . Could it?

. . . . . . Maybe. Just maybe.

Emboldened, Blitzø sent the owl a lazy smile that easily darkened the pink on his face, matching the warmth the imp felt on his own face. “The apple was like a fucking angel feather, so soft and tasty. You have got to show me how the ever-loving fuck you made it turning to to applesauce ‘cause that shit was better than fuckin’ crack.”

Stolas looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be elated or overwhelmed.

After an awkwardly long amount of time, he clearly had settled on elation. His upper set of eyes turned upward in little crescents as his beak returned the smile with a brightness that Blitzø felt proud of bring out.

“I’d be happy to, darling.”

To be continued . . .

ME: Hey all you sinners & saints! Who’s excited for HAZBIN HOTEL coming out this friday?!?!?!? (Or Thursday if you actually watch it at it’s appointed time) I know I am!

I am SO EXCITED AND DESPERATELY TRYING TO IGNORE THE FACT THIS STORY IS LITTERALLY GOING TO LOST IN HAZBIN HIGH THAT I KNOW IS COMING FOR THE PAST WEEK. AND THE WEEK AFTER THAT. And the week after that . . .

ANYWAYSO, here is the recipe for the Mega-Omelet, which let me tell, just reading the ingredients alone mad me feel full! Also, what do you do for your respective hangovers? Let me know in the comments!

I’ll have the next (& FINAL chapter of this installment) written and posted as soon as I can, so until then, eat hearty, everyone!

Oh, and enjoy your stay at the Hazbin Hotel . . .

[58sei]

The thoughts ran out of control so here’s more detective yomi

This one will contain a lot and I mean a LOT of rambling, the demons need to be let out…..

Contains some game spoilers for chap 5

I thought ab how yomi would climb the ranks of the WDO a bit more and I decided it was with the help of shinigami hitman. (Will get back to this later)

Some things to get out of the way first:

- Yomi’s past in this au. Yomi has always seen a lot of death happening around him since childhood so that’s why he doesn’t feel anything when it comes to the matter. I’m also thinking yomi’s childhood involved a lot of kill or be killed situations, so he develops that mentality down the line. Wherever he goes, death follows, and because his fate is so intertwined with death, it eventually leads up to him joining the WDO and finding the book of death.

- As for how he gets to the book of death, I’m honestly not sure how he manages to breach security. That or he was used in some sorta side experiment and given the book as one of the procedures by the UG but then he kinda just killed em and ran

- After he obtains the book of death he forms a contract. Shinigami hitman asks to see yomi’s life through to the end in return for his powers (bc why is this bitch always attracting death??). Also I want to just, make some slight altercations to the game lore here. In this universe the book of death can only be opened by those who are close to dying (less than 5 years left to live). People who have spiritual affinity like vivia can only see the death god inside and feel it’s aura, but cannot open the book. There is a chance they can open it, but only if shinigami hitman chooses to let them.

Ok with that out of the way, back to how yomi climbed the ranks with the help of his shinigami (calling him fake zilch for convenience). He uses fake zilch’s powers to solve mysteries (as well as crush those in his way). In a sense, he has already performed multiple detective deeds all in the span of less than a year, but because the culprits keep dying, there is no way to properly evaluate the things he did. But he DID solve the mystery and bc death has always followed him everywhere so people in the WDO’s just like “yeah checks out”. So with a lot and I mean a LOT of skepticism he gets promoted to a master detective and also earns the title of ‘grim reaper’ (this’ll be important later) in the process bc everywhere he goes someone dies.

I should reiterate that Yomi absolutely does not feel guilty when killing in the mystery labyrinth, in fact, he feels great about using it to find the culprits. 2 reasons. First, he believes the blood is on fake zilch’s hands bc yomi didnt actually reap the culprit’s souls himself. This view is heavily challenged in chap 4. Second, to him, he’s enacting justice on the guilty and he’s not in the wrong for doing that. Like the original yomi, he views justice in a very black and white way. Fake zilch has his own opinions on the matter, but he is far more interested to see Yomi’s story to the end to bother doing anything ab his behaviour. He only opens the mystery labyrinth for yomi if the case is very complicated (except master detectives take on a lot of absurd cases, so you know how that goes)

As for how he became number 1, he probably just murdered the former one like how his original killed Amaterasu’s old ceo. Then after murder he just, took no. 1’s position without anyone knowing. Not much thought put into this part yet sorry lol. Also I’d say the UG’s successful homunculus did not use the world’s brightest mind but rather the man most associated with death, bc they didn’t obtain no 1’s DNA, and while Yomi is intelligent he isn’t even a contender for the spot.

Circling back to the grim reaper title, it comes into play on the Amaterasu express. Yomi was not dispatched to kanai ward, the real trainee Yuma was sent, but Yomi drugged him and put him in the disconnected 5th car early on. He then asks fake zilch to take his memories after he locks himself into one of the toilet stalls in car 1. Wakes up later yali yali yada, the “where am I who am I” panic, sees his letter thing “oh I’m yomi hellsmile!!”, “wait how am I already on the express ??”, “ok whatever ig”, goes into car 2 and sees detectives, then intro scene. Except yomi isn’t a doormat (no hate to Yuma I love him actually) and has an attitude lol he probably starts bickering with aphex and both nearly get physical before shinigami (who’s now the hitman, who disguises as a diff MD) and melami restrain both of them 💀

Then everyone introduces themselves and the moment yomi says his name the other MDs are like hold tf up why is the grim reaper on the Amaterasu express with us?? So now the strange circumstance is the fact that yomi appeared instead of the trainee. Still the same “oh someone who shouldn’t be here is here” type mystery but slightly different. Suspicions rise and people are starting to get riled up in the express, but then shinigami eases it up and the MDs all realize that if the amnesiac before them actually is the WDO’s grim reaper then they’re in deep shit. (They are) cue rest of chap 0.

Also, during the entirety of the introduction up to yomi getting drugged and passing out in the bathroom, fake zilch is actually able to show himself. He just… doesn’t to act like they just formed a contract.

Yeah ok that’s ab it

[teenandbeyond]

Gojo x Sub. Fem Demon Reader

This resulted from a misread request lol

Want the subby Gojo version? Here.

Want more from meh? Masterlist!

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

🕶 Disobedience 🕶 (Jujutsu Kaisen)

Warning(s): College AU, flirty reader, smut, a lil gore, public sex, dirty talk

It's your second semester at a new college and you've already got a guy trying to impress you, not doing too good so far when he's wearing shades indoors...

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

He could feel you before you entered the room.

As you entered, he lowered his shades, like he couldn't see you clearly past them.

You were beautiful.

You immediately met his eyes, you could feel his power, too.

And when your lips lifted into a smirk, he decided.

He wanted you.

The next day, he made sure to make a point of falling into the chair next to you.

"Mm, are you here to dispose of me, curse user?"

"Not necessarily," he drew out his syllables, leaning on a palm, "I just wanted to get a better view."

"You're not going to get that from the very back of the class."

He met your gaze over his shades after turning his head your way, "I didn't mean the lesson. I'd much prefer to study you, instead. Better view than that geezer any day."

"Sacrificing your grades for me? I'm flattered," you offered a shark-like grin full of sarcasm.

"No need to worry about me. I have the best grades in this school," he smiled.

You rolled your eyes, kicking up your feet, "Of course you do."

"Miss [Name]! Put your feet down, right-"

Your professor cut himself off with a glare from you, your head tilted back, challenging him to say the rest.

All he did was clear his throat, "I'll let you off this time since this is your first day, but don't expect such leniency next time."

"Well, aren't you the rebellious one? Someone should tame that disobedience of yours," he purred out.

"I don't get tamed. It's not in my nature."

And every day after that, he finds something to brag to you about.

Trying to impress you, you supposed.

But he wasn't your type.

He was pretty, sure, but you weren't into men who weren't worth what they bragged about.

He just seemed like another egotistical pretty boy who was used to having his way in life.

And why hasn't he reported you yet? You were a demon, his type doesn't let you cruise around innocent people so easily. It's why you had to transfer quite a few times.

His answer?

"I mean, other than a few little pranks, you don't mean much harm. Just another student trying to get their degree. As long as it stays that way, you'll be fine."

He seemed to care more about getting in your pants than much else.

He even brought you your favorite drink from some cafe a few minutes away.

"How the hell do you know I like this?" you ask after an experimental sip.

"I watch."

"Creepy. And I'm a demon."

All he does is smile.

You have a strange dynamic of banter, Gojo not really getting past your wall.

"We can't go on one date, beautiful?"

"My dates include an exclusion of clothes."

"I certainly wouldn't mind that," he smiles, flashing his pearly whites.

"You haven't earned the privilege, human."

"I will..."

Things change one day when a sleazy student decides to grope you on your way out of your last class. Even after you tell him to stop.

You both end up in a hidden corner with you tugging hard on his ear, threatening him.

"Listen here, human. You have two options...You can either use this pencil and stab yourself in your poorly endowed genitals. Or I can tear off your ear for your poor listening abilities."

"You crazy bitch, you think you scare me? I've had crazier girlfriends."

"Oh, have you, now? Well, I don't like being second best to anybody. May I show you why I'm the one to fear?"

You mute him with your power, he's unable to be heard by powerless humans. And you slowly tug further and further away from his head.

He tries to struggle away, but your power holds him in place.

"You don't deserve these ears anyway, much too pretty for that attitude of yours," you grin as he begins to scream.

"Stop! Stop! It's going to tear off!" he shrieked.

"That's the point."

You silently glance at the ear in your hand, then back at the screaming young man.

And you laugh. Tossing your head back, hard.

"Fascinating! Humans are very expressive."

"What's going on here?"

You blandly glance over to see Gojo moving closer, "You're not blind. I think it's blatantly obvious."

"Gojo! Gojo, help me, man! This bitch is crazy!"

"Silly human, he can't-"

"Help you? Lovely [Name] here doesn't seem like the type to do something without reason."

He could hear him? Right...his power.

"So what did you do, Kimura?"

"Nothing! All I did was flirt a little and she went nuts!"

You stab a pencil into your desired area, getting another satisfying scream out of him, "You touched me without my permission. And even after my merciful warning, you kept doing it...You were confident, too. I can only imagine how many human women it took to gain it. What do you have to say about that?"

All he could do was groan in pain.

"Well, at least now you can live alone like you deserve. Only desperate little humans would get with a sleazy man lacking an ear and a hard-on. Now, get out of my sight," your power releases him as you dismiss him with a hand.

You don't turn to look at him as he rushes to hobble away.

But before he can turn around the corner, his body freezes in place and shatters like glass.

"Foolish human. I don't let scum like you live."

"Well, well. Interesting to finally see your power in action."

You jump at the voice next to you, when did Gojo get that close?

"You didn't try to help him."

"He was weak anyway. But I told you not to harm anyone, or we'd have a problem."

"I have selective hearing," you smirked, leaning against a brick wall.

"Selective hearing, huh? Of course, you do," he hummed.

Before you could blink, he was pressed into you, arm against your throat.

"I should kill you."

"Will you?"

"Hmm," his gaze bore through you, "It'd be a shame...I like you."

"I am quite the charmer," you don't break his stare even as his thumb brushes against your cheek, red staining it when it leaves you.

"Red suits you," he muttered, looking down at the blood.

"It suits anyone."

"But I like it on you, I'm not talking about everyone else," he drags his thumb over your lips. Teasing it between them.

You tease back by accepting it inside when he meets your gaze again.

He sucks in a breath, "Damn, you're beautiful."

"I know," you kiss the pad of his finger.

"And a tease."

"So are you."

"And you need to be put in check. I can't have you killing whenever you feel like it," he glares.

"Even the strongest of your human warriors failed to do so. You're no different. All bark, no bite."

His grin is wide and dark, "I'm always happy to bite if you want me to, princess."

He was willing to prove it.

Your back was slammed against the wall, your legs tightening around his waist.

All hints of his normal nonchalance were gone and so were his shades, he couldn't let them get in the way.

As he sucked on your breast, leaving hickeys behind, he made sure to stare into your soul.

He wanted to make a point.

Especially after a statement you made.

"I don't have very high expectations for you. I've lain with many mortals and demons alike. And I've forgotten all of them, no one can sate my hunger enough to be remembered."

He lifted you higher, he gripped your thighs as he kissed down your stomach.

You thought he was a little weakling, but he lifted you with ease...

...looks can be deceiving.

You bit your lip as his breath hit your inner thigh, "Hm...do you deserve my mouth there? You've been very disobedient. Disobedience shouldn't be rewarded..."

Your breath hitched as he nipped the plush of your thigh.

"Sensitive. Have you been neglected here? No wonder your hunger hasn't been sated. They're basic."

You groan in frustration as he goes everywhere but where you want.

"You asshole."

"I'm well aware, you've called me that a few times already."

"You think you're so great just--Oh my--!"

"Ironic coming from a demon," he giggles lowly, before getting back to work.

You grip his hair tight, and you briefly think about it being painful, but he doesn't say anything to indicate it is.

All he does is groan, syllables drawn out, "Mmm...a delicacy."

You try to keep quiet, eyes squeezed shut, your pride not allowing you to give him what he wants.

But then his hit tongue hits the right spot just as he adds a couple fingers.

Your legs squeeze him closer as you moan, louder than you'd like.

You can feel him chuckle and you know his ego is boosted a little.

"D-don't get too big-headed, there's plenty of people that've made me-" he cuts you off again after sucking hard.

Your back arches against brick and you look down at him to find him already looking up at you.

He looks like...he's starved.

You look away, you've never done such a thing.

And just when you're about to reach your peak of pleasure, he pulls away.

It both relieves and infuriates you.

You didn't want to admit that this human could make you do something few have done.

But on the other hand, this asshole. How dare he deprive you?

A hand leaves your thigh as he reaches for his pants with it.

"Impatient are we?" you mock, in between breaths.

"If it tastes that good, I wanna know how it feels..." he muttered.

You watch openly as he reveals himself for you to see.

"Ego now makes sense."

"Hm."

And soon he's rubbing between your folds, watching intently.

"Are you just going to sit and watch all day?"

"You don't deserve it, so don't expect me to go easy on you."

"I can handle you just fine. Just put it in already-"

And he does, in a single motion he's as deep as he can get.

With a whimper, your nails dig into his back through his shirt.

He groans into your collarbone before sliding out just to slam back in.

"W-wait, Goj-ah!" you gasp out a strangled moan.

He slams into you again, and again, slowly.

He grins into your neck, "I've been waiting for someone like you. I can go all out and not hold back for once. Should I stop holding back on you? I did say I wouldn't..."

And you stiffened at the words, "That was holding back?"

"Wanna tap out now before it's too late, pretty girl?"

"Fuck you."

"Already doing that, but fine."

And once he sets his merciless pace, sounds won't stop slipping past your lips. None of which you're proud of.

"Shut up, you pathetic demon, whimpering like a dog on my mortal cock that you don't deserve," he growled into your ear, gripping your neck tight.

Your eyes roll back, drool escaping past your gaping mouth.

And quickly you have a shaking climax, before it can end, he's still going. It's not long before you can feel your body on the edge of approaching another.

"Look at you. Chanting my name like you worship me. Drunk on how good of a fuck it is. Weren't you talking shit not too long ago? Now you're acting like my desperate little whore."

Usually, when people talked to you like that, you'd disintegrate them...but at that moment, you forgot how to speak, only able to say the same words.

"Satoru, Satoru, Satoru...ohhh. Please, oh, please!"

He gripped your chin, roughly tugging it down, he met your eyes, "You're never gonna be able to stop thinking about me. You're gonna try, but then you'll give up, and have your hand between your legs until you accept that your destiny is to be my little toy...and come crawling back to me."

"I-I-I'm..."

"Do it."

You collapse on top of him when you do, clenching around him so much he moans with you.

He eases you back from your high, kissing your neck.

"Since you were a good little toy, you can help me finish. Not that you're worthy of it."

And the second he puts you down you're on your knees taking him.

He groans, looking down at you as he pets your head, "So eager... Did I tame you that quickly?"

Gojo knew he'd win this challenge. All that annoyance he'd pent up from you playing hard to get he put into you.

But unlike he thought, that burning desire for you didn't go away even as you went down on him.

Even when he reached his own high.

Perhaps you'd have to be his toy for a while...

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Ivy & Mal

Chapter nine of Dead Beauty AU, aka Ivy being a diva for 2,7k words straight. Without formating this time, for which I apologise. Please, head over to AO3 for, y’know. Reasonable format.

Ivy wakes up in her bed; she isn’t really sure how she got there, and she isn’t really sure if she cares. (She thinks she remembers the rope, itchy under her hands, and Diego talking at her. She thinks she remembers being carried.)

But now, now she’s in her bed, which is good, and something nearby is throwing the vibes <i>off</i>, which is horrible.

Something: A certain wannabe good fairy standing in the door and leaning at the frame.

Ivy groans and hides her face into the pillow again.

She’ll need to have a talk about this with the Baduns – later.

„Don’t act on me,“ the purple nuisance scolds, all poisoned apples and cursed roses, and Ivy fumbles her hand under the pillow, there should be– Right. That knife is still in the garden. Fucking demon dogs and fucking annoying fae.

So she sits up and opens the bedside drawer. Next moment, a different knife imbeds itself into the frame of the doors – well, mostly – and Ivy lazily smirks at that. She has a <i>good</i> aim.

„Now that we know you’re awake and we have the pleasantries off the way, how about you and I talk like civilised beings?“

Oh, absolutely not, please and thank you.

„Fuck off,“ answers Ivy. She doesn’t feel like talking, at all. And besides, it’s too early to be up and about anyway. Leave it to Auradon to fuck up perfectly good circadian schedule.

„It’s eleven in the morning, de Vil,“ Mal informs her, as if anyone asked her. Ivy ostentatiously turns away from here and look, Claudine isn’t there anymore. (She <i>thinks</i> she remembers falling asleep next to her.)

„Now get your ass up and about.“

Ivy supposes  she could get up, if only to see where Claudine went, make sure she– make sure she didn’t leave.

„Fine,“ she sighs dramatically as she slips out of the covers, „Since you are asking so nicely.“

„How lovely of you. And for fucks sake, cover up. You look like a slut.“

Ivy looks down at her clothes, and yes, they look good, thank you for asking.

„And you look like a dumb bitch, so?“

She takes a tiny bit of pleasure at the look of <i>hurt</i> at the fairy’s face, though it doesn’t take long time for her to shake the insult off and defend herself: 

„You’re wearing <i>lingerie</i>–“

Ivy bends down to find her shoes, and, right. Those probably stayed in the garden too. It’s okay, it’s not like anyone sane would want (to steal) (her) high heels. She opens the closet to choose a different pair and barely spares Mal a dismissive glance: „And you’re wearing, well, <i>all of that</i>.“

There is something wrong with this girl, honestly.

She fishes out high heels that she thinks used to have rhinestones on them once upon the time; they’re white, Claudine might like them better than the red ones.

She also grabs one of the coats her Auntie let her have, to start her own collection or because she didn’t feel like cleaning it herself, without Carlos around, Ivy is honestly not sure, and she throws it over her shoulders. Anyway.

She turns back at the fairy only to find she’s walked away already, let herself into the living room. 

Oh well.

Ivy is fairly certain the fairy would just wake her again if she went back to sleep, but she isn’t really feeling like joining her just yet.

Thus, she sits in front of her vanity and calmly selects what products to use – does her eyeliner – mascara and highlighter on her cheekbones – paints her lips bloody red. She stares at herself, for now satisfied. This shade suits her, and matches her nails; she poses with her fingers at her cheek, <s>she looks like those old photos in Auntie’s rooms, drawn over carefully with harsh red marker</s>, and–

She shrieks. Her nail is <i>broken</i>. From the whole treehouse escapade, no doubt,

„Who’s murdering you, de Vil?“ yells Mal from the depths of the house with adequate level of disinterest but loudly enough Claudine is sure to hear it, if she is in the house. And she might not come near due to this bitch, she doesn’t like loud noises.

„This is all your fault!“ shouts Ivy back as she stumbles into the living room. The sooner this annoying uppity bitch is out of the house, the better.

„What did you want anyway?“ She stops by the cupboard where she stores alcohol and pulls out the bottle of whiskey from– yesterday? Eh, who cares. She holds it against the light, it looks decently full still, and also–

„Dim these fucking lights for Evil’s sake.“

„’s not my fucking fault you’re hungover, is it now?“ The accursed fairy doesn’t do slightest move to shut the lights.

„It is your fault I have to look at you.“ And so early, too, and those colours, the hair– Why the hair!

„Also, who did that to you?“ She gestures to, well, her whole self, and screws open the bottle.

„Well, why–“

Ivy puts down the bottle momentarily and claps her hands sharply:

„Lights!“ she reminds her. Her head hurts and it <i>is</i> painful to look at.

She makes a shooing motion at the other girl when she hisses something she doesn’t bother to try to understand, and yeah. Fucking finally.

She sighs as the lights dim and sits down at sofa, the flask in her hand again, leaving Mal to deal with it or sit elsewhere. Mal sits elsewhere. Her loss, really.

Ivy drinks from it as she leans back and asks: „Well? Who did that to you?“

„Why little Dizzy Tre–“

Ivy cackles <s>and almost chokes on the alcohol</s>. When she recovers from the coughing fit, she cries out: „Little Dizzy Tremaine! What did you do to the Tremaines already! You’ve been back here, what, two days? Three?“

„Almost four, you bitch, not like you or Hook would notice.“

Ivy just shrugs. You see, she just doesn’t care all that much.

„And I think it looks cool.“

Ivy chokes again. God, she isn’t drunk enough for this.

„She gave you <i>bangs</i>!“ she protests.

„I like it,“ shrugs the insolent fairy, the bloody crime against fashion and a walking insult to anyone who has eyes, „Now–“

Ivy holds up her hand– What does she mean, now?! 

Still holding up her hand to stop the fae from talking, she drinks again, and then sets the flask down on the ground and says: „I need a cigarette.“

She cares nothing for Mal’s eyes flickering in displeasure as she reaches out into the table:

„Goddamit,“ she curses quietly before raising her voice again, „Would you make yourself useful and got me a light?“

Mal, Mal the Auradonian princess, Mal, one of the arsonists of the Isle of the Lost, promptly throws a lighter at her head.

Ivy catches it and lights up the cigarette in between her lips.

„Thanks,“ she mutters then, letting the words go along with the first breath of smoke.

„You’re so fucking pathetic, de Vil,“ the fairy sights as Ivy plays with the lighter absentmindedly.

„You can keep that, by the way.“

She looks at the lighter now: It’s the cheap but reusable kind, with a picture of more naked than clothed woman at the side. Ivy figures Claudine won’t like to borrow this one; she keeps it anyway. Free stuff, you see.

„Didn’t think you were into that,“ she says, just to say something, „And also, don’t you have a boyfriend?“

She doesn’t really care what Mal likes to look at, but, relationships drama, you see.

„He’s not my boyfriend anymore,“ Mal frowns. 

You see, relationships drama.

„So he dumped you? Don’t you magic folk have some potion or curse against that?“

„No– Yes! I mean we do and I did use that, but it washed off! <i>And</i> he didn’t mind that. I- <i>I</i> broke up with <i>him</i>!“

Why, yes, Ivy does greatly enjoy watching the colour rising up as the fairy struggles with her words and it takes her a moment to register what she said. Then, she just stares blankly: I mean, who dumps a prince?

This girl, apparently.

„Wow, you really are dumb,“ Ivy says finally and drinks straight from the flask again.

Mal just makes some mostly incoherent noise of outrage in response, and well. Not Ivy’s problem.

„Shut up,“ she says instead. If she keeps shrieking like that, Claudine will be impossible the whole day.

Notably, Mal doesn’t shut up, at all. Instead, she waves away Ivy‘s words and says:

„Anyway.“

Ivy yawns, utterly uninterested in anything the stupid fairy-spawn could say in her defence.

„<i>Anyway,</i>“ the fairy-spawn presses on, „Why the fuck didn’t you tell me the Hooks have my boyfriend?!“

„Your ex-boyfriend,“ corrects Ivy, blowing out the words along with the smoke from her cigarette.

„<i>So</i> not the point!“

Ivy lifts her eyebrow. She’s still not drunk enough for this.

„It is <i>not</i> the point, de Vil!“ insists Mal again, as if Ivy cared, „You should have told me anyway! He’s there because of me, he is my responsibility!“

Wow, young love. 

Ivy yawns again.

„I told Carlos,“ she says, „He told you. Basically the same thing.“

Ivy listens to the other girl throwing an annoyingly loud and awfully repetitive hissy fit for a moment, before she cuts her off: „And yet, here you are,“ she breathes out the smoke and gives Mal a glare, „Yapping at me like the useless bitch you are and disrupting my morning.“ (Disrupting Claudine, too. She still hadn’t shown up.) „Instead of, you know. Getting your ex-boyfriend, the very rich and powerful king, from the port?“

„I– de Vil!“

Fucking finally, she had shocked the fairy into silence. Took her long enough. Ivy breathes in from her cigarette, leans her head back, and closes her eyes.

„Amazing. Now, kindly shut the fuck up and leave. You know where the doors are.“

Given she let herself in, she must know: and, well, if she doesn’t and has an unfortunate run-in with one of the traps around the house? Ivy couldn’t care less.

„You should have told me– Told me directly– fucking Hooks– Why, you didn’t have nothing better to do, nothing better than trying to kill yourself–“ Mal starts muttering again like the broken gramophone in the downstairs living room, and geez, still?

„I told Diego. I told Carlos. You know. I don’t know what’s the fuss about,“ she, too, repeats. Though, speaking of which:

„Diego!“ she calls out, to try and see if he’s home or if he’s vanished again, to the salon or perhaps to the port or to other depths of hell she does not wish to be thinking about.

„Diego!“ she’s sure he’d just love to hear this new relationships drama, too.

And really, he peeks his head into the room few moments later: To Ivy’s delight, he has new, very distinct, bruises on his neck and jaw. Looks like someone had an <i>interesting</i> night–

But about that later.

„The fuck did you want?“ he grunts at her with an attitude suitable for the early hour and also <i>maybe</i> being distracted from other far more <i>pleasurable</i> activities.

She points her hand at Mal: „She dumped the king.“

„What.“

„That’s what I said!“ Ivy gestures around wildly.

Neither of them pays attention to Mal, who is trying to defend herself. Something about too much media attention?

Ivy can’t relate.

Diego stalks closer and helps himself to the flask that Ivy left by her feet; he drinks straight from it.

„She’s still gonna do the hostage-money stuff, right?“ he says, „Or at least give the demands further? To someone who will?“

„Fucking hell!“ swears Mal loudly and both cousins stare at her. No need to be so rude, really.

„<i>Yes</i> I am going to get Ben from the port. He’s my responsibility! And the money– and the rest. We’ll see. But I am getting Ben from the port.“

„Then fucking <i>get to it</i>,“ growls Diego.

Ivy takes the flask from Diego, drinks, and then gestures around with the bottle: „<i>Thank you</i>! That’s what I’ve been saying!“

Mal sputters. In answer, Ivy dramatically drops her forehead against her cousin’s shoulder.

„Do you need to be escorted or what?“ Diego asks rather irritably. Fucking mood of him.

„I– no,“ Mal finally – fucking finally! – gives up and gets from her seat, „I know the way. Thanks for nothing, by the way.“

„You’re <i>so</i> welcome,“ Ivy says, and it means „If you don’t dip right this bloody second, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.“

Diego makes a growling noise that she can only assume means the same.

Though–!

„I’ll go with you,“ she decides, sighing heavily and standing up. She doesn’t sway, not really.

„Gotta make sure the unwanted guest is really out of the way, don‘t I?“ 

And maybe see where Claudine did disappear to, while she is at it.

Diego holds his hand against her back for just a heartbeat before he  joins her: „I’ve been thinking about visiting Harriet,“ he says, and they dive into familiar arguments, which, Ivy notes with pleasure, make Mal blush furiously.

On the ground floor, still few halls down from the front door, something catches Ivy’s attention: A shadow moving under the door, clinging of the dishes, a well-known voice humming an anxious melody.

„Bye,“ she says to Mal, „I hope you have an awful day. Bye, have fun.“ She presses a quick kiss to Diego’s cheek, careful not to leave any mark with her lipstick.

„Try not to die,“ he tells her in turn.

„Can’t promise anything.“ With that, she opens the door to the kitchen.

Claudine is there: Of course she is. She didn’t turn on the lights and she is busying herself with the dishes. Ivy almost frowns at that, but: She’s still there.

Ivy closes the door behind her softly; Claudine hears anyway.

She turns around, fast and tense, and relaxes again when she sees Ivy.

„It’s you,“ she says, and if anyone else said that, Ivy would be insulted by the words alone, „Hi.“

Ivy nods in greeting and walks to her, sits on the counter by the sink.

„You know you don’t have to do that, right?“ She points her chin towards the dishes Claudine is cleaning and re-cleaning, organising and re-organising.

„I–“ Claudine wrings her hands together in the cloth in a manner that looks vaguely painful and Ivy resists taking it from her.

„You don’t have to do that here,“ she repeats instead, „Cook, clean, wash dishes – You don’t have to. Or– Did auntie make you? Again?“

Ivy takes the cloth away now, as Claudine is decidedly pulling at it just to hurt herself. She makes a displeased noise at that, but doesn’t argue.

Ivy frowns.

„Your aunt hasn’t been there,“ says Claudine finally, „I wanted some tea.“

The „And I didn’t want to deal with people,“ goes unsaid. She points at the counter, to the half-empty mug on it.

„I made you some, too.“

Ivy coos at that and Claudine turns to fetch it for her; Ivy decides to ignore the line of cooling mugs on the table. Claudine explains anyway:

„Wanted to have the tea good for you. Not cold.“ She gives her the cup – very warm – and she is blushing slightly, „Didn’t know– didn’t know when you’d come?“

Ivy could just fucking melt. Not that– Not that she’d admit it, or anything.

„Aww,“ she coos again as she takes it and she leans back slightly and hooks one of her legs behind Claudine’s back, bringing her close,„Thank you.“

Claudine is now blushing furiously as she attempts to arrange Ivy’s dress into place.

Ivy laughs at that, which, of course, makes Claudine blush even more. This is just delightful.

But she still has the cup in her hand, so she brings it to her lips: She’s not surprised to find the tea is exactly as she likes it.

She hums appreciatively at Claudine and says:

„Maleficent’s daughter was there, being annoying. But that’s all dealt with: I’m all yours, sweetheart.“

With the understanding that there <i>will</i> be complaining about the fairy, of course.

Still blushing Claudine carefully moves aside the cup and leans in for a kiss and really, for how horribly the day started, it might shape up yet.

Ivy smiles into her lips.

[darushi-chan]

Im alive, lol. Inuyasha AU for Lucemond just because. Ok, I’m in way to many fandoms for my own sake, but meh. For the ones who don’t know, Inuyasha its a japanese anime, the simple plot, they are in feudal japan, and the’re are demons or youkai, in the original anime the male lead (Inuyasha) its a half dog demon or hanyo, his mother its a human and his dad its a famous demon (Or Inuyokai/Dog demon), in this case Lucerys its Inuyasha, Rhaenyra its his youkai mom and Ser Harwin its his human dad. Inuyasha also has a half brother how’s a youkai, a very proud and asshole dude, but also super handsome, lol, at some point in the story Inuyasha cuts his arm with his sword, and it doesnt grow back (for the ones who know lets leave it at that) so if Luke takes Aemond eye here of course its not coming back, canon you’all.  Inuyasha its like a very nostalgic anime from my childhood, I love it. I dont really ship Inuyasha with his brother, but Sesshomaru its to much like Aemond some times for me to ignore it, obssesed with his pure blood, his lineage and with power, also with pantene long white hair, do I need more? He also hates hanyo to the bone, specially his half brother, how can I not put my fated feud here? Lol. I like to think that the Targs are this very powerful and old Dragon Youkai family, Rhaenyra being well, Rhaenyra, doesn’t give a shit and goes and falls in love with Human Harwin and has all of her 3 hanyo children and has the time of her live with them until Harwin dies, because well, he’s a human and humans die, specially in feudal japan times lol. You can’t really hide being a hanyo because other youkais and hanyos can smell it, so no Laenor papa sadly, but hey, they are happy, the Targs, specially Aemond, can bitch about their pure blood all they want. Because anime magic and so on, Youkai and Hanyo don’t age like humans and they also have a bunch of other cool things, like weird magical swords and powers. Luke its not that good with swords so he uses a bow and arrows (Inspiration from Ñuhon its that you?), Aemond of course has a sword. Luke should have something more dragon like to show he’s a half dragon hanyo, but I really wanted to give him Inuyasha cute little dog ears for this drawing, we can also think they’re doing cosplay hahahahahhaa.  Fated feud forevah, Aemond its a snobby Oh no my pure youkai blood you damn hanyo ruin everything bla bla bla, and Lucerys always end’s up figthing with him for it, thats how you end up lossing eyes you’all. That’s also a very good way of ending obssesed with your hanyo nephew, hehe.

[transskywardsword]

Pertaining to Demon Kings

eeeeyyyyy after ages, it's finally here, the second official chapter of Heroes Gate, which is a Ghirahim's pov chapter. Ghirahim has been an absolute JOY to write, he is so mean. so mean. If you haven't read the first chapter of Heroes Gate, Dawning, I'd HIGHLY recommend you do so. You can read it and the other drabbles for heroes gate here on ao3. if you are interested in the AU as a whole, more info on it can be found here!

*note: ghirahim, yuga, and zant are not present in this au's version of hyrule warriors, as even in an au abt time line shenanigans that's just too much for my brain

also, shout out to the zelda name drop, we'll be crossing over with zelda's universe soon! @thebleedingeffect asked to be tagged when this came out, if anyone one else would like to be added to a tag list just lmk!

---

The spirit floated in the sheer gossamer of nonexistence, an oil spill across black waters, a splatter of emotion and vague consciousness, not enough to think but enough to rage. It had been thrown there when the filthy flesh creature attempted to butcher its Master, sealing away his divine being at the last moment, some sick mockery of mercy. In the crack between the Sacred Realm and the Realm of Reality, its anger raged on, vicious and violent. It consumed its very being, till all that was left of a once proud vessel was a puddle of fury. There was no time in the void, no thoughts, nothing but an all-consuming need to scratch and bite and maul, to rip the flesh creature limb from limb and baptize its Master in the damn thing’s blood. The thing’s screams would serve as a blessed hymn as its Master rose, and when they were finally silenced, it would revel in the decay and rot. That image was the closest it came to concrete thought, and it thought of it often.

It was dimly surprised when a noise broke through the black absence of creation. There was no sound in nonexistence, no sound or taste or touch, just rage.

There came the sound again. Its eyes moved behind its eyelids—since when did it have eyelids? Since when had it been aware enough to question if it had anything?

It focused on the eyelids, twitched them, and marveled at how they responded to its commands. It moved its closed eyes, flickering them back and forth, and felt the muscle move. They weren’t supposed to—nothing moved in the void. So how could—

There came the sound again. A command? A name?

Did it have a name? Its Master had called it something once, blessed it with a title, but it couldn’t seem to remember. Remember—was it capable of remembering? It remembered the touch of its Master’s firm, fiery scales, remembered the hotness of the flesh creature’s blood, remembered the pulse of the Spirit Maiden under his fingers—

Fingers. Fingers? He had fingers?

There came that noise again. It was, frankly, quite annoying. He wanted it to shut up, and twitched his lips, ready to tell it to. Lips, lips, lips…

He had been proud of his lips, his face, the body his Master gave him the honor of sculpting. The Goddess Sword never changed her form, but his Master had gifted him with a freedom the Goddess, that holy bitch, never did. 

Ghirahim opened his eyes.

A trio of white, smooth faces leaned over him in his frame of vision. They each had only one eye, red and piercing—a mask? A mask. The masked trio whispered to each other in a rough language Ghirahim knew well. The eye upon their faces mocked him, its bloody teardrop so bitterly familiar.

Sheikah. The Goddess’s loyal dogs come to finish him off. A black, metallic hand shot out and wrapped around the first Sheikah’s neck—a hand, his hand, black and smooth, his final form, his most natural state— and squeezed.

Grind-crunch-snap

The Sheikah went still as its neck buckled and crumbled under Ghirahim’s steel grip. Ghirahim threw the body to the side, and it rolled, skidding across the floor and coming to a stop on its stomach, legs splayed around it like a forgotten toy. Ghirahim rose to his feet, towering over the other Sheikah, who scuttled back. One raised a sickle, the other a demon carver, barking orders in their language. Ghirahim followed orders from one person and one person only, and the Sky Child had locked him away where he thought no one would ever find him. Foolish. Ghirahim would always find his Master, would raise him from the ashes of the Surface and the Sky, would make him a feast from the Sky Child’s blood and bone.

“Halt!” one Sheikah called, voice muffled by her mask, and Ghirahim quickly silenced her with a flick of his wrist and a shower of daggers, each ripping through her uniform like a burning knife through butter. Ghirahim grinned. It felt good to grin. It felt good to see the blood pooling, darkening her red uniform from crimson to rust, and it felt good to hear the gurgle of someone drowning in their own blood after who knew how long in that pit of nonexistence. He breathed in deeply. The smell of fear and blood and the Sheikah’s guts meeting air as they spilled across her feet was familiar and invigorating.

He was alive, and once he disposed of these protectors of Hylia he was going to track down Link and make him wish he’d left the Goddess’ Vessel to rot on the Surface and never came face to face with Ghirahim. Deafening him on his own screams, strangling him with his own small intestine—that was child’s play compared to what Ghirahim would do to him. They would invent new words just to describe the agony Ghirahim was going to carve into the man, would run out of ways to label the sounds Ghirahim would force from him.

The third Sheikah dropped their demon carver and scrambled back, shaking like an autumn leaf as they begged for—for something. Ghirahim couldn’t be bothered to care. They switched between language after language: Sheikah, some strange dialect of Hylian, then even older, darker languages that no pet of the Goddess would ever be permitted to learn. 

Interesting. But not interesting enough.

“Please—” The Sheikah said, their tongue stumbling as they tried to speak, “We mean you no—”

Ghirahim moved forward, lightning fast, and the Sheikah shrieked. They were surprisingly light as Ghirahim wrapped a metal hand around their throat and lifted, the pathetic creature kicking and wheezing as Ghirahim drew them to his face. They clawed at their neck, trying to pray Ghirahim’s fingers apart, and Ghirahim laughed, his voice shrill and loud.

“Where are they?” He hissed, face inches from the Sheikah’s mask.

“Wh—wh—”

“The Spirit Maiden, her dog, and the Hero. Where is Link?”

“It worked,” a voice behind them breathed. It was nasally, with a heavy Sheikah accent. “It worked!”

The second time they spoke, their voice shook with excitement, and Ghirahim bit back an annoyed snarl. He spun on his heels, and threw the sniveling creature in his hand at the speaker, who lunged out of the way. It was dressed differently than the three Sheikah who now lay bleeding and broken across the floor, its clothing more ornate and detailed, mask painted with greater care, with a wide stomach and short legs. The Sheikah bowed at the waist, his mask nearly brushing his knees, arms swept wide.

“Lord Ghirahim. A pleasure.”

Ghirahim fluttered his fingers, and the obsidian sword he was so fond of blinked into existence. A sword’s favorite sword.

“Wait!” The Sheikah hurried back to an upright position. “It would be a shame to die after going through all the effort to summon you,” he said, with surprisingly little fear in his voice. Hm.

Ghirahim raised his sword, pointing the blade down his arm towards the man’s girthy middle.

“Where is your Hero.” Despite the words, it was clear that this was a demand, not a question.

“That is a tricky question at the moment.” The Sheikah said. “Which one? I think we’re up to twelve now.”

“… What?”

“Please, Lord Ghirahim, sit. I’ll bring you a chair, and we can discuss this like civilized people over some banana chips. Footsoldier Ere—”

“On it, Master!”

Ghirahim lowered his blade. The Sheikah (master?) wasn’t a threat (couldn’t be a threat, not against the likes of him) and had proven to be interesting enough to earn himself a few extra seconds before Ghirahim sliced open his rather girthy middle. Ghirahim finally took the time to take in the room around him. Likely underground, given the rough-hewn stone walls, rocky ground, and wetness in the air. Slips of spell paper and magic charms littered hastily painted red walls. What appeared to be cheap, chalky paint made a ridiculously childish, yet detailed outline of the Gate of Time on the ground beneath where Ghirahim stood. The Sheikah Master stood at the head of the summoning gate, and at his feet was a tome, unlike anything Ghirahim had seen in a long, long time.

The Goddess of Time had stayed neutral in Demise’s war of glorious destruction, which, to the Demon God, might as well of been the same as pledging her undying support to the Goddess Hylia. The pathetic creature had been nothing compared to his Master, her insistence on never raising a finger in support of either side making it all too easy to grind her into the blood and gore of the very battle fields she ignored. After Demise had left her bruised and broken and bleeding, she had turned her back on the realm of the living entirely, retreating to the Sacred Realm to her older sisters, begging the Golden Three to hide her from the big, mean demons, as if her sniveling insistence of neutrality hadn’t brought it upon herself.

Ghirahim had found the idea of the Guardian of Time quaint. A full-grown goddess couldn’t handle the heat, so she, what, brought out a subordinate to watch the world for her? Go and lick her wounds in the Sacred Realm while some other, lesser lifeform did her job for her?

It was so pathetic that it was almost adorable.

Ghirahim never met the Time Guardian, not face to face, but he had seen her across the battlefield from her place of neutral observation, had felt the sheer magic that dripped from her pink and white robes, the divine power that soaked into the ground around her, the time magic so thick that it was palpable. She had carried such a tome in her hands, but that one had been shiny and new, the gold leaf glowing and ink still wet—this one was tarnished, powerful but pox-marked by time.

Hm.

“Where am I?” Ghirahim asked, narrowing his white eyes at the Sheikah man. He had taken a seat on a massive cushion with truly hideous yellow tassels provided by the other Sheikah— foot soldier, he had called her? The foot soldier placed an equally large eyesore in front of Ghirahim, who tilted his head and raised a brow. She flitted back in an awkward almost bow, coming to a stop behind the Sheikah man. Ghirahim pointedly did not sit, and the foot soldier fingered the demon carver on her hip, discomfort leaking off of her.

“Under the abandoned Yiga Clan Hideout.” The Sheikah man said around a mouthful of ‘banana’ chips, and Ghirahim couldn’t help his ears from perking.

Yiga. He knew that word. He might not rattle off stats and translations like his other half, but Ghirahim had been forged with the same wealth of knowledge as she had been—he had to be if he was going to be of any use to his Master. What use would Demise have for an imbecile as a first lieutenant? What kind of right hand would he be if he could not keep up with the enemy, could not prove himself to be leagues above the rest? So, when the Sheikah man used the word, Ghirahim knew its translation easily.

Yiga. Could be used as a noun, verb, or adjective, first used to describe the actions of the Sheikah who turned their back on Hylia in hopes of winning Demise’s favor. Instead, Demise had gifted Ghirahim the opportunity to dispose of them as he saw fit—after all, who wanted turncoats fighting on their side?

Yiga. Noun: An act of absolute betrayal. Verb: a treasonous action. Adjective: A traitor of the worst kind. Yiga Clan—

Quite literally, a clan of betrayal.

Interesting.

“The Hero thinks he’s finally disposed of us,” The foot soldier hissed, finally finding her voice, “Soft little moron.”

“It is unwise to underestimate your opponent,” Ghirahim said. “The Sky Child is many things, but soft is not one of them.” Soft. The word felt foul on Ghirahim’s tongue. He had thought Link soft once, stupid once, and look where it got him. Once beautiful form destroyed, left to rot in the nothing with only rage and hatred to keep him company. Was that how his Master felt, sealed away in the bastard’s sword? Angry, hating? Alone?

The foot soldier scoffed, and her master lazily swatted her; she mumbled an apology and sat, kneeling beside him with a silhouette that spoke more to adoration than obedience. The question was, was this man a teacher, a leader, or a slaver?

“I had quite the welcome party planned until you went any killed my subordinates. Oh well. One must crack a few eggs to make a fried banana.”

The footsoldier nodded sagely at her master’s words, tilting her mask up barely to expose a painted mouth and dark skin, and taking a bite of the dried banana slices she’d placed before the three of them. Ghirahim glanced at the three bodies around him. Blood still oozed from one, and its guts were beginning to stink. Oops.

“This isn’t the Sealed Grounds.” He said, and the Master nodded.

“No-pe, the Sealed Grounds have long since disappeared. Unfortunately, quite some, uh, time has passed since the Hero of the Skies sealed the Great Dark One away, but with that nifty little book we’ve managed to—”

“Make time our bitch!”

“Ere!” the man hissed, and the foot soldier—Ere—folded her arms.

“We’ve got the Eyes of Ganon, and Yuga, and all sorts of monsters,” She continued, leaning forward, “and now that we’ve got you, we’re unstoppable!”

Ghirahim bristled. “You don’t ‘got’ anything.”

“I just mean--!”

“What footsoldier Ere means,” her master interrupted, “is that I have a proposition that I feel you will be very interested in.”

Ghirahim flexed his fingers and in an instant his sword was back, eye level—mask level?—with the man, who, for his credit, didn’t even flinch.

“You bore me.”

“I know where Link is.” He said, sounding far too cocky for Ghirahim’s liking, and Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. He shifted his grip on the sword. The man could be lying, stalling for what—time? He had brought Ghirahim out of the nothing, that much was clear, but Ghirahim would rather cut out his own tongue than say thank you; those words were reserved for one being and it sure as hell wasn’t the pudgy man chowing down on banana chips in front of him. Frustration welled up and Ghirahim stamped it down. It would be so easy to send the point of his blade through that perfectly painted mask, to be done with this man and his pathetic subordinate, to end this conversation that sounded far too close to someone demanding his subjugation, but…

But if the man really knew where the Sky Child was, if Ghirahim didn’t have to go through all the pesky trouble of tracking down another one of Hylia’s pawns, if he could jump straight to utterly annihilating the boy instead of a wasteful chase… well, that would be ideal.

He didn’t lower his sword, and the man leaned forward till the tip poked the red eye of his pearly white mask.

“I can take you to him. All of them.”

“All of them?”

“A lot has changed since you were sealed away. Sit. Let’s talk like civilized creatures.”

Ghirahim glanced at himself in the reflection of the blade. Black, metallic skin, streaked with white veins of crystallized mineral. Beautiful, breathtaking—but not him. This body was the Goddess’ making, back when Hylia thought him a blade she could use for herself, nothing like the skin and hair he had created with Demise’s far more tempting gift: the freedom of choice. He grinned as the feeling of illusionary magic fluttered over him, skin growing over metal, white and creamy, delicate clothing melting into place, hair curling perfectly around his face. A picture of elegance. Perfection.

The foot soldier clapped excitedly, the Master whistling in appreciation. Ghirahim flipped his hair over his ear.

“I know. Not many get to see the creation of such flawlessness,” he said, twirling the sword over the back of a gloved hand. “Such elegance, fresh and free of cost. Many have killed for such a front-row seat.”

“I’m honored.”

“I could still kill you.”

“And have no one left to speak of the beauty I just witnessed? What a shame!”

“Surely you don’t think I’m that vain, do you?”

The man cocked his head and Ghirahim was sure he was grinning under the mask. “Of course not. Eat, eat, before my subordinate eats all the banana chips.”

Finally, Ghirahim sat. Ere took another handful of chips and her master swatted her hand away.

“Excuse me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I am the Big Banana of the Yiga Clan, the head honcho, the strong, brave, burly, ( and, frankly, extremely attractive) Master Kohga. But Master Big Banana Kohga will do.”

Ghirahim snorted. “I’m not calling you that.”

“Fine. Master—”

“I have only one Master, and you are not him,” Ghirahim spat, surprisingly himself with the intensity of the words. He’d meant to sound aloof, but it was hard to be put together when Demise was the topic of discussion. Demise—the need to be beside him burned inside Ghirahim, pulling at him. If he had organs, Ghirahim was sure they would ache, but instead the metal inside him boiled with need. His creator, his Master; Demise was everything, and Link would suffer like no Hylian, no, no living creature, had ever suffered before for taking him away from Ghirahim.  

“Very well. Kohga then.”

Beside him, the Sheikah—Yiga—foot soldier stiffened in horror at the thought of addressing Kohga as anything but his full title. “But Master!”

Kohga gave her what must have been a stern look behind his mask. Amazing how a masked man could be so expressive. “Not now, Ere.”

“Back to the business at hand,” Ghirahim said, “Link.”

“Link.” Kohga grit out, lifting his mask to spit on the ground, as if even saying the Sky Child’s name had been an ordeal. Disgusting. Ghirahim knew demons with better manners.

“You know where he is.”

“Where they all are.”

“The Spirit Maiden?”

“What? No, all the Links.”

Ghirahim steeled his face. He’d always been emotive, even back during the Sealing Wars, and millennium upon millennium alone on the Surface had given him the freedom to express himself as he so saw fit—but he was not about to give Kohga that power over him. Kohga laughed.

“You’ve been sealed away a long, long time, Lord Ghirahim. Can I call you Ghirahim? Ghira? I’ll call you Ghira.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Anyways, Ghira, I’d tell you the year, but I doubt that would mean much to you—it’s been hundreds of decum-millennia. Thousands of hundreds maybe—the exact time of the Era of Myth has been long lost, given it is, you know, considered myth.”

He paused and stuffed a mouthful of banana chips in his mouth. Ere mirrored him, and it would have been almost… quaint if it hadn’t been a couple of filthy Sheikah, even if they were supposedly traitors. The question, of course, was traitors to whom. Hylia? The Spirit Maiden? The girl’s disgustingly devoted dog of a protector?

Link?

Ghirahim held no love for turncoats. Honorless grifters, all of them.

(As if you weren't once one, a voice that sounded far too much like Fi whispered in his ear)

“Of course, given the vast knowledge of the Yiga, the years don’t really matter all that much. The Sheikah may be a lot of useless goody-two-shoes, but they certainly are great at bookkeeping!”

Ere nodded enthusiastically.

“When the Demon Demise was sealed away, the Hero—”

“—Did a shit job!”

“Yes, thank you, Ere, did a shit job. So, along comes Ganon, Ganondorf, whatever you want to call him, Demise's successor—"

Ghirahim felt something flutter inside him that, if he had one, he would call his heart skipping a beat. His Master, free? Sure, as some ridiculously named nobody, but still his Master, brought back some way or another.

“Take me to your ‘Ganon’,” Ghirahim hissed, leaning forward deep into Kohga’s personal space. The Sheikah didn’t even flinch—obnoxious little man.

“That’s the problem, eh? We can’t.”

Ghirahim grabbed a fistful of Kohga’s red uniform and jerked him forward, a dagger melting into existence in his hand and finding its home against Kogha’s neck. Ere yelped, rushing to her master’s side, but Kogha clicked his tongue at her and she froze.

“Unacceptable. Take. Me. To. Him.”

“Can’t. Link killed him.”

“You said millennia has passed. Link would be lucky to live past 90.”

“Each time Ganon returns, so does Hyrule’s precious Hero. Link. Over and over and over—”

Ghirahim jerked him back with a snarl. Link, brought back, after all these years? Constantly revived to what, rub Demise’s defeat in his face? Disgusting, revolting, utterly barbaric—didn’t he know how to leave well enough alone?

“But we’ve got the upper hand this time!” Kohga said with triumphant fervor, patting the tome he’d kept firmly at his side so far. “This bad boy! Time travel, summoning gates, necromancy, the whole shebang! With it, we can bring back every Ganon, every Demon King, heck, maybe even Demise itself, and the Hero—”

“Can’t do jack-shit!” Ere said, leaning forward for the book, which Kohga snatched away.

“Yeah, ‘can’t ’t do jackshit’.” He said. “We’ve connected with Ganon’s followers from across the timelines—”

Timelines? Plural?

“But, you know how the Gods are, all buddy-buddy with Their precious golden Hero, so They’ve gone and tried to beat us to the punch. Lined up a whole basket full of them.”

Ghirahim held up a hand. “Link—you’re telling me there’s more than one Hero?”

“Duh,” Kohga said. Ghirahim’s jaw twitched. “I think we’re up to twelve?”

Ere nodded. “Twelve.” 

Twelve… Link had been a thorn in his side, and that had just been one of him. Twelve? Never let it be said that Hylia did things in halves, he supposed. But Ghirahim had managed to resurrect Demise all by himself. He could handle more than more brat, surely.

Resurrect him for approximately 9 minutes and 47 seconds, a voice that sounded far too much like his second half whispered in his mind, which is a true and complete failure. The likelihood of bringing your Master back for even a minute longer is minuscule with a second Hero by Link’s side, and the chance of besting twelve alone is too low to compute.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. Was the little blue bitch still up and kicking with the other Links? Twelve… The Yiga leader was stupid, that much was clear. But they had mentioned allies, and Ghirahim, as much as he loathed to admit it, needed that.

“So. You summoned me to lead your armies?”

Ghirahim could feel Kohga’s eyeroll behind his mask and bristled at the man’s snort.

“No-pe, the Big Banana answers to nobody but Great Mr. Darkness Himself. Vaati, Yuga, the Eyes of Ganon, we’ve been divvying up forces, attacking from multiple timelines, keeping the group too splintered to move forward. You’ll join, of course, and be at my right hand and we’ll rip those little brats limb from limb. Ere has done a fantastic job outlining the timelines—thank you dear—”

The Yiga footsoldier preened under her master’s acknowledgment. “I’m good with numbers!” 

“She’s good with numbers.” Kohga echoed with a nod. “Anyways, what I’m saying is you have the honor of being the number one lackey to the Big Banana himself while we rip apart the Heroes and bring the Big Boss—es— back from the dead! And of course, once we do and I’m rewarded for my bravery, I’ll see that you’re congratulated as well. I’m sure we can get you a prize. Maybe a town to play with—do you enjoy politics, Ghira? You seem the type. Maybe  a—”

Kohga cut off with a gulp as Ghirahim’s hand wrapped around his thick neck. He dragged the Yiga closer till his beautifully curved nose was pressing against the smooth wood of the man’s mask. His hands may be softer in this form, cushioned with flesh, but the steel was still there under the false skin and stale blood, and Kohga’s neck creaked in his grasp. Kohga wheezed, one hand coming up to paw at Ghirahim’s iron grip.

“I am no one’s ‘second hand’, no one’s subservient, and sure as hell no one’s lackey,” He spat, “except to my Master and you, 'Mister Banana' are far from the terror and brilliance of Demise. You are a pot-bellied, self-absorbed idiot messing which magic he does not understand in the slightest—”

Kohga let out a full bodied wheeze, and Ghirahim realized with no short of furious confusion that the man was trying to laugh. The spirit’s mouth twisted into a snarl, and he grabbed hold of the strap holding Kohga’s mask—he wanted to see the man’s bulging eyes lose their light personally.

Kohga raised his hand, fingers splayed—was the man going to, what, slap him? One last stand that was just as laughable as he was?

Kohga made a fist, and Ghirahim realized it was a signal. Suddenly, the air grew thick, thick with magic, electric and bitter, like biting into the ozone. Ere yelled a word of Power and a wall of blue light formed in the sliver of space between Ghirahim and her master, and in a split second, it expanded, throwing Ghirahim back with a BANG and shaking the room, spell paper raining down like snowflakes. The light wall pressed down on him, pinning him flat against the wall, reeking of time magic, and Ere stood beside her master, arm outstretched and tome in hand. Her hand shook with the effort of the spell, but she radiated determination, and the spell book in her hand glowed with the signature blue light of divine magic.

“Now then,” Kohga said, rolling his neck, “I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to do it this way.”

The Yiga stood, and despite his short stature he suddenly seemed nine feet tall. He put his fists on his hips and cocked his head.

“I need a right hand. You are far more qualified than the painter or the tiny rat magician will ever be, and the Eyes of Ganon are practically all brainless monsters. I need someone intelligent. Dangerous. Capable. And you are going to be that. I didn’t go through all that effort of a resurrection spell to let you slip through my fingers, got that, Ghira?”

Ghirahim bared his fangs at him, and the man had the audacity to laugh.

“Very scary,” he said, nasally voice suddenly low and dark, and in that moment Ghirahim finally saw the master of a clan of traitors. “I’ve got it from here, sweet cheeks.” He said over his shoulder to Ere. “Go ready our guest’s room.”

“Upstairs or downstairs?”

“Depends on how he behaves. He can have the upstairs bed, or we’ll find him a nice, wet, dark spot in the mines. I’m sure for a demon, the Depths will feel just like home.”

“You’ve got some nerve—” Ghirahim hissed, and Kohga cocked his head, clearly rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shut up won’t you?” He took the tome from Ere and lazily flipped through the pages. He’d doggy ears the pages without a care and one he had turned with so little care that the page ripped. Ghirahim might hold no love for the Goddess of Time, but the tome was still a part of her divinity and should be treated as such.

The wall of light dispersed reforming into ribbons of glowing cyan as heavy as an ocean that clung tightly to Ghirahim. The pressure of light off of his nonexistent lungs was a blessing, replaced by bonds of a new kind. Ghirahim refused to struggle with the shackles in front of Kohga; he wasn’t going to look any weaker than he already did.

He could feel Kohga grin under his mask, and Ere offered an eager hand for a high five, which Kohga provided.

“So, tell me, Ghira, what’s it going to be? A nice bed upstairs and some fried bananas or shall I drop you down the Yiga Hideout Chasm to think some more?”

Ghirahim gave himself a moment to feel his anger, a moment for fury. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, taking in every shaking, raging emotion pounding in his metal chest before opening them and smiling. It was bright, dripping with cocky bravado, and he flicked his hair out of his eyes.

“So, you aren’t as useless as you seem,” He said pleasantly and Kohga puffed out his chest.

“Of course not. I’m not called the Big Banana for nothing!”

“Of course. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. The years have left me jaded, I’m afraid.”

Kohga grabbed hold of Ghirahim’s bicep and pulled him to his feet.

“Shall we discuss the details of our arrangement over dinner?” Ghirahim said, all teeth and sweetness, “It has been a while since I’ve eaten, after all, and I’ve never had a—what did you call it? A banana? Before.”

Kohga slapped his back. “I knew you would see reason.”

Ghirahim grinned. In his mind’s eye, he was smashing Kohga’s head into the wall, slamming it over and over till the skull caved and Ghirahim’s elegant hands were red and pink and grey with brain matter. Instead, he shook out his hair and held himself tall, spine and shoulders loose and free of rage.

“Now, please, let us talk as friends.”

“I’d like that.”

By the door, Ere watched the two of them. Ghirahim’s eye settled on the girl’s mask, and she straightened. She flinched when his tongue snaked its way across his top lip.

“Master—”

“Not now, footsoldier, the adults are talking.”

Ere huffed and stomped out of the door, fists curled. Kohga clipped the tome to his belt.

Ghirahim liked lists, like ticking things off them. It made him feel productive, successful. In his brain he began his new list: get the tome. Kill Kohga. Then mutilate Link, his Link, and feed him to his own precious Zelda.

Then, bring his Master home.

Easy peasy.

---

A banana, it seemed, wasn’t actually a crunchy chip, but instead, a fruit that hadn’t existed back when Hylia first walked the earth, likely evolved from, if Ghirahim was to guess, something like a musa acuminata. Long and yellow, it resembled the musa’s short, stubby green curve and while it was softer and sweeter, with little to no seeds, Ghirahim could see the appeal. He’d never enjoyed eating—his Master hadn’t needed to, so Ghirahim didn’t, even if he technically could. The act made him feel too human, too mundane, nothing like the immortal opulence that came with being a sword spirit, regretfully forged by Hylia’s hand but recreated with grander splendor by Demise’s, so he made a point to never depend on food. After all, a sword was cared for best by the hands of its wilder, polished and prized best by the hands that reforged it and held it in battle—that was what Ghirahim needed, not some mushy fruit. But Ghirahim cut small bites of a battered, deep-fried, painfully mushy banana, face open and pleasant, and pretended to be engrossed in the story Kohga was telling.

Ghirahim was unsure if carving the man up with his sword would be more satisfying, or if he should beat the life out of him. Either way, it would be with the mask off. He wanted to see the fear in Kohga’s eyes, the blood bubble past his lips, the skin lose its warmth and pallor as his heart stopped. He wanted to feel Kohga’s pulse go still.

Ghirahim smiled and took another bite, fighting back a shudder at the revolting texture. The table was very low and filled with Yiga in red and white sitting on mats and cushions on the floor, as well as strange bat like creates in black hoods—the Eyes of Ganon—and two men, one tall, one short.

The tall one was covered in makeup, chalky pale face cream with bright red lip stain and dramatic eye powder, and his thick red ringlets were pulled back so tightly that his hairline had started to fade. His robes were elegant and brilliantly colored, and he looked at Ghirahim with suspicious disdain. Across from him, the smaller one was barely taller than a child, with chubby cheeks and long lilac hair. A scar cut across his face, and his robes were dark violet and purple, pulled tightly around him.

Both men reeked of magic, though distinctly different types—the tall one’s was old, otherworldly, bizarrely out of place, while the small’s magic smelled fresh and forest-like, a sweetness that didn’t match his scowl.

Yuga and Vaati, two sorcerers from two times, each with no love for their respective heroes and a determination to resurrect Ganon, though be it for power or revenge, Ghirahim didn’t know. Zant, Ghirahim had been informed, whoever the fuck that was, would be joining them soon, once he finished letting loose his stupid ‘shadow beasts’ to catch the scent of the hero—hero-es—Kohga was going to have them all track down.

Ghirahim’s new allies. Ghirahim would have scoffed if he could. He detested the idea of buddying up to anyone, but 12 heroes were too much even for the Demon Lord. At least the Eyes of Ganon looked like simpletons—monsters were never intelligent enough to hold their own opinions, making them easy to manipulate.

Vaati took a long sip from the cup in front of him. He hadn’t touched the meat that had been put on his plate, looking at it with near revulsion and dumping it to the side, instead digging into the fruits provided. A vegetarian. Ghirahim slotted the information away as something that might be useful in the future. The man clearly wasn’t human, but what he was Ghirahim wasn’t sure. He smelled of nature, of a clean, pure magic tainted by something distinctly powerful but not necessarily evil. Yuga felt human enough, though not Hylian, or Sheikah, so instead somehow something different. His magic felt almost Hylian, but twisted, shifted too far to the left to be quite right. He raised a hideous red eyebrow at Ghirahim’s lingering gaze, and Ghirahim smiled, all bright teeth and false enthusiasm.

Disgusting.

“So, Lord Ghirahim,” Yuga said “I’m sure you’ve been delighted to be returned to mortal form. The Big Banana has told us much about a sentient sword spirit. It seems the world grows stranger and stranger these days.”

Ghirahim bit back a scoff. ‘Mortal form’—there was nothing mortal about the beautiful glamour that made his body, nor the deadly metal underneath it. He would always be worlds about the bloody and beating hearts of the mortal men around him.

“Strange indeed, Yuga. I’m told you come from a world with your own Link?”

Yuga’s face darkened. “Yes. A filthy, hideous worm of a thing. Though, if Master Kohga is to be believed, you know more of Links than the rest of us.”

“The enemy of the first ever Link,” Vaati said. “Truly a feat there.”

“Don’t downplay yourself,” Ghirahim said amicably, and Kohga nodded.

“Ghira’s right—we all bare the scars of Hylia’s chosen brats, and we’ll all return them tenfold!”

“Here here!” Kohga’s little brat of a footsoldier called, raising her cup in a toast before lifting the corner of her mask and downing the ale.

Then the lights went out. Only for a moment, the oil lamps losing their flame before flickering back in full force, but in that time the air was dark, the air pressure became oppressive, heavy, like someone was baring down on Ghirahim’s shoulders. A whine broke through the air, then a strange cracking sound, like broken glass or a ruptured heart valve, and the light was back. Standing behind Yuga was a towering creature, eyes wide and fish-like, teeth needle-sharp, pallor unlike anything Ghirahim had seen. His clothes were ornate, ill fitting, though that might have been purposeful, and the darkness that radiated off the man smelled heavenly.

True darkness, not like the petty magic of Yuga or the nature-esc power of Vaati. Nighttime in a cup, doused over the man, creature, whatever’s head.  

“Ah, Zant,” Kohga yawned, stretching. “I take it your trip went well.”

Was he shackled too? This man, this monster, dripping in power—did Kohga have him on a chain as well? Or had he allowed himself to be subjugated like those two idiots?

“They were out of sight,” It, he? Zant? Rasped. “The Time Guardian took them from this plane. But they have returned.”

“Good, good.” Kohga said, running his fingers down the tome at his side. “Though, if they are moving so far from even your shadow beasts’ reach—well, then we must move faster.”

Yuga scoffed. “Let them get complacent. Let them get comfortable, lazy.”

Kohga’s eyes narrowed behind the mask; Ghirahim wasn’t sure how he could tell, but he did. “Did I ask for your opinion, Yuga? No, I don’t believe I did.”

“Good help,” Vaati said with a snort, “so hard to find these days.”

Crack

Kohga watched, almost bored, and the blade master smacked the side of Vaati’s small head hard with the hilt of his wind-cleaver. Ghirahim, were he another, weaker person, would have been concerned to see someone so tiny hit with such force. Ghirahim was not another, weaker person. He watched with lazy eyes, bringing his cup to his mouth to hide a smirk. ‘Good help’ indeed.

“You.” Zant hissed, thought Ghirahim thought that might just be his voice, “You’re new.”

“Our resident Demon Lord.” Kohga said, “his skills are impressive, his repertoire and reputation exquisite. He shall be a fine addition to the party.”

Zant was silent. He was massive, though Ghirahim wasn’t sure if it was his actual size or just his presence. Taller than the Sky Child, that was for sure. Did he have a Link of his own?

Ghirahim had always scoffed at the thought of allies, but-- but Ghirahim needed help, and this shadow creature looked far more useful than a bat monster or little flower child or haughty magician. This, this creature spoke of power, real power. Useful power. Power that Ghirahim could control, just given the time. And it seemed, with the rest of these idiots beside him, that he had plenty of time.

---

The desert of the Gerudo was different than the deserts of Lanayru. It stretched for miles, as far as the eye could see, with mighty cliffs decorated with Sheikah—no, Yiga—emblems. Ghirahim breathed in the night air. It was dusty and dry, and carried a chill, the heat of the day long gone. Kohga had said his own Hero had decimated the Yiga Hideout not too long ago, leaving them hiding underneath, in a cave system that led to the ‘Depths’ that Kohga enjoyed using as a threat so much. The little one, Vaati, seemed truly terrified of them, though he tried to hide his flinches at every mention of it. It was unsurprising. The man radiated earth and forest magics, bright and unwavering under the dark cap he bore. Regardless of what magics he claimed to fight with, what dark creatures he claimed to serve, under it all he was truly just some kind of frolicking forest creature. Though which kind, Ghirahim was unsure. The world had changed so much since he had been defeated—he wasn’t sure he even knew the name of the creature that Vaati was, deep under all that dark magic.

There was a looming presence behind him, silent but oppressive, and Ghirahim smirked. “Has anyone ever told you that you would make a fantastic primadona? Quite the stage presence.”

Behind him, Zant was silent. Ghirahim looked over his shoulder, his smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Come to join me?”

“You’re not like the others,” Zant said in that horridly raspy voice of his, and Ghirahim cocked his head.

“Oh?”

“They are weak. Mortal. Breakable.”

“And you are not?”

“I am the chosen of my God. They are beneath me.”

“God, ey? Then I suppose we are on more even footing that those… creatures.”

Zant said nothing, and Ghirahim didn’t bother to hide it when he rolled his eyes. He leaned backwards, resting his weight on his palms.

“The Yiga man says you are the first of us.” Zant said finally. His voice was like broken fingernails across sandpaper. “The one who raised a sword to the first Link. The first failure.”

“Need I remind you that had you not also failed, you would not be where you stand?” Ghirahim said, forcing the grit from his teeth and aggression from his voice. The creature could be of use, an ally made of stronger stuff than the weird woodland creature or the magician, one who he could model and shape into what Ghirahim needed to succeed, then dispose of at will. An ally, however brief and easily manipulated.

“My God will forgive my failures when I resurrect him and bring him the Hylian’s head.”

“And you plan to wait beside the Yiga for their permission to do so?”

Zant cocked his head. “And you do not?”

“No. No, I do not. I don’t need them to bring my Master back.”

“You think you can fight twelve heroes?” Zant said with a gravely strange noise that might have been a laugh. It was the closest to emotion Ghirahim had heard from him. “You could not even fight one.”

“Neither could you.”

Zant made a face that Ghirahim thought was supposed to be a frown.

“Then what is it you suppose?”

“We play along, for now, let Kohga have his fun. Then, when his guard is down, we take the tome for ourselves. Forget this ‘clan’ and their plans, simply rip the throats out of the heroes ourselves.”

“…We?”

Ghirahim patted the spot beside him. Zant lumbered over, needle like teeth over his bottom lip. The creature was ungainly, ungraceful, more a bolder than a man—creature, whatever-- but there was a secret flexibility to his step. Ghirahim suddenly wanted to see the thing fight, to observe and annotate how someone so large could hide such… contortion.

“So, this god of yours,” He said, and Zant’s face, to the best of Ghirahim‘s ability to read it, shuttered shut. “Is he the same Ganon as the rest?”

“He is above any pig beast or ‘demon’,” Zant said. His face had opened with surprising speed, his slitted, reptilian eyes bright—or as bright as a shadow could be. “His power is like no other. He brings with him the promise of a world righted in balance, with the small taking the power of the many. He gives and takes away. He is all-powerful, all-consuming, and he carried with him the promise of greatness.”

All powerful. All consuming. Carries with him the promise of greatness. Hm. Ghirahim could feel the start of a smile pulling on his lips. The awe, the devotion that clung to Zant’s words were familiar in their dedication. Did Ghirahim not know such a feeling, the complete devotion to another? The beauty to be found in ultimate power, the pleasure in all consuming majesty. The promise of a place at the feet of the greatest ruler the Surface had ever seen, the near ecstasy in seeing the planet’s ravishment at your own hand, a sword guided by the mightiest creature to have ever walked the earth… Demise was intoxicating, and his power was mesmerizing, and his might made him all too worthy to be worshiped like the Demon God he was.

If Zant’s half baked Ganon-whatever was even a thimbleful of the god Demise was then, well, maybe resurrection wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe, the Yiga idiot’s plan had some merit. Regardless, Ghirahim knew what he planned to do, once he beheaded Kohga and took the tome. Eradicate his Link, and every one since, raise his Master and then, together, the two of them would obliterate this flawed timeline and remake it in their own image. Gone with Hylia’s lingering influence, with Links and heroes and spirit maidens. He was sure that Zant’s Ganon could be useful in achieving that, at least temporarily.

Zant and Kohga both spoke of the man (men? Creatures? Pigs?) in very different ways, the first with filthy reverence and the second with something almost unreadable, the meaning behind the flattering, adoring words hidden behind his white wooden mask.

Kohga, Ghirahim knew, must be a very good liar. A nasally, rude, self centered, and pathetically vain ass of a man, but a good liar. Who knew what hid behind that mask, what simmered in the man’s eyes as he spoke and planned and plotted.

Ghirahim was going to be sure the Yiga’s mask was off when Ghirahim ran him through. He wanted to see the man’s face, wanted to know if it was the same warm brown as Impa, his eyes the same piercing blood red.

Impa. The rage that built in his throat at the thought of Hylia's and the Spirit Maiden’s pitbull was a tightly tangled knot that he struggled to swallow. The Sheikah woman would be long dead by now. Probably lived a long life getting happy and fat while reveling in Demise’s defeat.

Bitch.

“Kohga spoke of ‘shadow beasts.’” Ghirahim said instead of dwelling further on the attack dog. “Explain.”

Zant snorted. “Watch yourself, spirit.”

“Explain. Please.” Ghirahim corrected, sarcasm thick in his drawl.

“When I was slaughtered without care by the Hero’s… companion, most of my minions fled or returned to their lesser, weaker forms. With my revival, I have begun…. Recollecting. Shadow beasts are the remnants of traitorous Twili, transformed into far more obedient beings. They are strong, cunning, and ideal trackers.”

“Twili?”

Zant cocked his head. “You really are the first of us, aren’t you?” He said, the softness of the words coming out as a hiss. “The kingdom of Hyrule, the Light Realm, Ganondorf—you know none of my own history. When Yuga speaks of Lorule, your eyes are dark, blank with understanding. You don’t smell the minish cap amongst us.”

“And you know so much of me?”

“No.” Zant said, cocking his head as if he hadn’t considered the reverse. “I know none.”

Ghirahim twisted to face him more, plastering on a grin. Ugh.

“Then, let’s learn,” Ghirahim said. Zant’s nonexistent nostrils flared. “After all, if we’re going to be friends shouldn’t we know more about each other?”

“Friends?”

Ghirahim’s jaw twinged from the size of the smile he forced, curling his lips over his sharp teeth to seem less threatening. “Why not? You, me, your God—we’ll see to it than no Link crosses this world alive ever again. As friends.”

---

Kogha’s fingers drummed on the table, a staccato beat that spoke of a remembered tune and not just anxious fidgeting. Zant had just finished his brooding explanation of what his shadow beasts—hulking, tentacle-esc monsters with inky skin and strange masks that filled the war room with a shuddering chill and occasional shrieks, leaving everyone but Zant, Ghirahim, and the Big Banana himself shivering—has tracked, not unlike some kind of Twili hunting hound. Because that’s what they were, what they had been: Twili. It felt good to put a name to whatever race of shadow that Zant was, and Ghirahim had mourned just how bland and empty the new, underground Yiga Hideout was, without a single book or scroll he could pour over to get some idea of what Twili even exactly meant. It was becoming increasingly clear that Ghirahim knew so much less of the world than those around him, especially the Yiga, who seemed to be the furthest in the timeline, whatever the ‘timeline’ even looked like. Those answers, the ones surrounding the movement of time and history could be found best in the Guardian of Time—Celia? Seriara? Cia? Whatever her name was?—‘s tome.

 The massive book taunted Ghirahim with its magic. Demise, when he resurrected him, would be ecstatic to have such a piece of magic gifted to him. Ghirahim just needed to actually get his hands on it first.

“They’re moving between time faster than we thought.” One of the hooded creatures, the leader of the Eyes of Ganon, rasped, and Kohga hmmed in acknowledgment.

“And you’re positive they are in this Hyrule, as we speak?” He said to Zant.

“My beasts are never wrong.”

“So you say,” Yuga said, dapping his rouged cheeks with a handkerchief with painstaking care. Zant narrowed his strange, otherworldly eyes. One of the shadow beasts that had taken to stalking around the room slunk behind Yuga, silent but impossibly fast, sticking its head over Yuga’s shoulder and growling. Yuga yelped, smearing rouge against the Twili beast’s mask, and Vaati snickered.

“Then we send out a hunting party,” Ghirahim said. He leaned back in his chair. This was pointless, all of it. They could easily teleport to where the heroes were and gut them; this whole ‘planning sesh’ was stupid. Demise never needed war councils like Kohga did. He simply swung Ghirahim and split as much blood as they could before dominating everything. Still, Kohga seemed to hold his spot at the head of the table like a leash on the people around him, the tome in his hand serving as the collar’s key. It made Ghirahim’s blood boil.

If Ghirahim let himself be honest, Kohga’s cockiness did more than incense him. It made him almost lonely.

He missed his Master. He missed his Master, his sharp tongue and hot touch and the vile, violent love that he reserved for Ghirahim and Ghirahim alone. Demise had liberated him from Hylia’s touch, shown him the light, so to speak, and still, Ghirahim had failed him at every turn. It was unacceptable. The knowledge of his ineptness stung, but not as much as Demise’s absence. Ghirahim wanted him by his side, needed to stand at his right hand. And if that tome was the way to get it, well, then Kohga would regret ever holding it above Ghirahim.

One thing at a time. First, the Sky Child and the Spirit Maiden. Then, the rest of the Links. Then, Kohga.

Then… then, returning his Master to his rightful place of power and control.

“A hunting party—fantastic! Ere will lead an exploratory assault--“

“Exploratory?” Ghirahim said, narrowing his eyes. “We know where they are. We get to gutting and decapitating now, and then we’re done with the lot by lunchtime tomorrow!”

The leader of the ugly Ganon Eye things shook its head rapidly, its cloak hood flopping around its glowing eyes. “Alive. We need ours alive. His blood must be fresh.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes. “Alright. We kill the rest and let yours alive to wallow in misery.”

Kohga straightened as Vaati leaned forward. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the bloodthirsty stuff, but the Eyes gotta point. There are more than just the Links at play. The Guardian of Time is meddling, meaning the Goddess of Time is on their side. If she is leaving behind her neutrality—”

“The Goddess of Time is a coward and a bitch,” Ghirahim drawled, and Vaati frowned.

“The Old Gods—”

“Are useless. My Master can, and will gladly, annihilate them once I—we—resurrect him.”

“When. As in later. He isn’t here, Ghirahim,meaning we cannot be dependent on him. Some dead, failure of a god—"

Ghirahim was up in an instant, grabbing Vaati by the clasp of his purple cloak.

“Watch your words, rat—”

“Make me,” Vaati hissed, “Your disrespect for the Divine will do nothing but hurt you. Do you think Link is our only enemy? If one Goddess is willing to intervene, why not all? Hylia? The Golden Three? And need I remind you that Link is merely one half of a pair? His princess is out there, one for each Link, and they are more powerful than you can imagine. The Light Force, the Life Force, the Triforce, whatever you want to call it, it is power in its most complete, inherent form. If you go against a Zelda, you will not survive!”

Ghirahim pulled his closer, nose to nose.

“I killed one, once. Fed her soul to my Master. I can do it again with my eyes closed.”

“Again, with Demise! For fuck’s sake, Ghirahim—”

“Boys, boys,” Kohga drawled. He waved a hand and a blade master untangled Vaati from Ghirahim’s hand, dumping the little man onto the ground with and ‘oof!’ and a puff of dust. “Ghirahim, if you need bloodshed so badly, you and Yuga can take to the ground with some Yiga—Ere?”

“At your service, Master Kohga!”

“Ensure that they play nice. We need information, to see what we’re up against, not to go all massacre-y.”

“Yup!”

Kohga patted his underling on the head, and she preened brightly under the attention. Ugh. Disgusting.

Kohga suddenly turned his attention to Ghirahim.

“This is not a massacre. Blood may be spilled—encouraged! —but I am not sending you out with the intent of you coming home with a dead body. Are we understanding one another?”

Ghirahim grit his teeth and allowed himself two seconds to fume. He was not a child. He was the right hand to the Demon God, the Great Demise himself. He would not be patronized by some idiot in a mask that had fruit for hanging off his ears! Then he smiled, all soft edges and sweetness, and nodded.

“Of course, Kohga. I cross my heart, I will not decapitate anyone.”

Kohga seemed to study him behind his mask, but finally leaned back in his chair, dumping his feet on the table.

“Then we’re understood?”

Ghirahim nodded, his smile widening. “Perfectly.”

---

Ghirahim watched the group from the pocked dimension that Yuga was so fond of. A hideous, pale likeness of his beauty sat painted across the wall of the outside of Slate—Ghirahim thought it was Slate, the whole name thing was proving to be far too confusing—‘s strange boxy town. Tarice Town? Terry Town? Something with a T. Ghirahim knew he likely should be paying more attention, but the bubbling excitement in his chest made it hard to concentrate. Because there, there Link was, surrounded by friends with Fi on his back, Ghirahim’s false partner well cared for under Link’s callused hands.

There were indeed twelve of them. Kohga’s Link, Slate or whatever, was short, his long hair messy and his sword arm a strange, glowing prosthetic that reminded Ghirahim of both the elegancy of the Sheikah’s time stones and the regal power of the Zonai’s creations. Walking beside him with a skip in their step was a colorfully dressed youngster, brown face dappled with vitiligo, and on the other side, a sunburned thing with a prosthetic leg and bleached hair long since damaged beyond repair by sun and sea. Wrapped tight in a cape was a girl with pink hair and a button nose, holding hands with a wallflower of a thing, the both of them watching an elegantly dressed young man speak with animated movements. Yuga growled at the sight of him. Ah, Yuga’s Link.

There was a child in some kind of uniform, goggles on her head and a bandana at her throat, and lagging behind, a tiny twig of a thing missing an eye. And finally, three men in front led the group, talking with a quiet seriousness: a soldier with a scarf as blue as his eyes, a man who smelled as strongly of dog as he did dark magic, and a man with a child in a blacksmith’s leathers on his shoulders.

Link.

Ghirahim’s heart lept at the sight of him. The Sky Child looked different. He’d aged elegantly, his lanky frame filling out into something soft and fat but still strong, his dumb, dopey eyes bright as he spoke to the two men around him. He didn’t wear his green tunic, instead dressed in silly combinations of layers and colors. Lichtenberg scars ran up his sword arm, across under his tunic, and up onto his neck and jaw, and the sight of them made Ghirahim smile. That must be his Master’s handiwork.

He hoped it still hurt, even all these years later. He hoped it was excruciating, and that every moment left awake, Link was miserable. He hoped the man lost sleep over it, scar burning even worse when thunderstorms lit up the Surface.

Yuga slunked out of the painting on the wall without a sound, just a flicker of rainbow color, and took a moment to dab at his face makeup with the pads of his fingertips—his vanity was obnoxious. Ghirahim would be the first to admit that he took a vocal pride in his own self-made skin but he didn’t cover his beauty in smelly, greasy paints and powders while too nervous that his complexion wasn’t grand enough to stand on its own. Ghirahim knew he was beautiful, knew he was stunning, and knew he didn’t need powder to secure that rightful pride. Besides, Ghirahim’s body was a work of art, self-formed and self-designed, a glamour created by his own hand, birthed from his own imagination and depth of creativity, instead of an obsessive attempt to perfect the flaws that Yuga undoubtfully carried, even with all that shit on his face.

“Lana wouldn’t send us in circles for no reason,” Blue scarf signed, and the other two older Link’s frowned. The child, clearly the youngest of the Link’s, pulled at Link’s hair, braiding the curly strands. “I promise, as flaky as she may seem, she is the Guardian of Time, and damn good at her job.”

“Mask doesn’t seem to have the same faith.” The dark one said with a raised brow, and Scarfy frowned.

“Mask is a deeply petty person.”

Dark one snorted. “I can see that.”

“Have you talked to him since…” Link glanced over his shoulder to the second smallest of the group, the one skulking in the back with the missing eye and colorful scars. “Since the last, uh, ‘time trip?”

Scarfy furrowed his perfect brows, signing something, but Ghirahim didn’t catch it.

Link had spoken.

Ghirahim had heard the man—a boy, then, really, just a boy, while this person in front of him was truly a man—make sounds of pain, of desperation, of rage, but never words, never syllables and phonemes, not like this Link. His voice was soft, light, gentle, and surprisingly deep, carrying a near-melodic lit to it.

Ghirahim wanted to know what it sounded like when the man was pleading for his life, begging for the pain to stop. He smiled as Yuga pulled him out of the graffiti on the wall, followed by five Yiga—three foot soldiers and two blade masters, with Ere taking the lead of the group. She was technically in charge of the six of them—seven, including her—but Ghirahim had no interest in some kid telling him what to do. Ere stretched, shaking out her hands, before rolling her neck and—melting?

Glamor flickered around her, red and spicy, with a crackle of magic and spell powder, and then in her spot was someone Ghirahim had never seen before. It wasn’t the Ere under the mask—that Ere had dark skin and thin, childlike lips while this woman before him had a full bottom lip, light brown skin flickered with freckles, and wide grey eyes. Her red-brown hair was braided on top of her head, and she wore the clothes of a traveler. Had Ghirahim not seen the transformation himself, he would never had connected the two.  

Ere spun, dipping into a bow, and the Yiga clapped, only to be quickly shushed by Yuga. Ere rolled her eyes.

“Watch the master in action.”

She shrunk into something pathetic and sniveling in an instant. Soon, she was ducking around the wall that had hid them, stumbling into the group of Link’s, tears running down her cheeks.

“Sir!” She squeaked, rushing to Scarfy’s side and grabbing his arm. “Please, I need help—my friend, we, we were racing just over the land bridge and her horse stumbled and fell on top of her and I’m not strong enough to move it and please, please your friends look strong, please—”

Scarfy nodded, giving Ere a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course we’ll help,” He signed, before turning to Dark. “Let the others know that—”

Behind them, Slate turned from where he was laughing with the teen missing a leg, curious as to why they had stopped moving. His eyes went wide as he saw Ere and Scarfy talking, the color draining from his scarred face. He shoved Peg Leg to the side, bolting towards Scarfy and Ere, but it was too little too late. One moment Ere was wiping grateful crocodile tears, and the next a demon carver was in his gut.

The chainmail under the man’s tunic kept him from being completely kabobbed, but only just, with the barbs in the massive blade crushing bone and mail alike, five spots of blood growing under each spike. The child on Link’s shoulders squealed, tumbling off Link’s back, and to his credit, Scarfy only stumbled back. Soldier indeed. He drew his sword, each movement darkening his tunic more, but his face was grave and determined. Dark and Link stepped in front of him, Dark’s back country sword as simple as the Master Sword was elegant.

It took no time for the other Links to slide down into varying stances, each armed—not a surprise, those Ghirahim hadn’t expected such variety in terms of blades. One, the cloaked girl with her bubblegum hair, didn’t wield a blade at all, relying instead on a Cane of Byrna. Huh. Ghirahim had thought that artifacts had been lost to time.

The remaining five Yiga took no time slipping into their own formation, which Ghirahim supposed made sense. They had dealt with Slate for years and knew the terrain the best. The instruction that Kohga had given was for Ghirahim and Yuga to follow the Yiga’s lead, especially Ere’s, but Ghirahim had no plan to. He took orders from one person, and one person only, and that person certainly wasn’t some Yiga girl.

Yuga vanished into the ground, slipping unnoticed through the grass and rock before popping up in the middle of the Link’s, spinning with his scepter and catching Slate in the gut. The teen went flying, straight into Rainbow, who let out a desperate cry as his sword—a distinctly magical thing—went skittering, right up to Ghirahim.

“Hm.” Ghirahim said, stepping on the blade. A shiver of magic ran up his leg. “This is quite the bit of illusion magic you’ve got there. Fun.”

Link spun. His eyes were wide, bulging in his skull, and his jaw was lax, terror written clear and clean across the flesh of his face. Ghriahim grinned.

“You’ve made friends, Sky Child. How quaint.”

Around Ghirahim and Link, metal clanged. A blade master had Peg Leg occupied, too busy protecting the disarmed Rainbow to keep an eye on his own six. Ere weaved with Slate, who had finally made his way to the front, cackling as her demon carver swung. There was a shout of glee as a foot solider’s arrow hit true into someone's side, and a grunt from Bubblegum and the mousy one as they were circled, surrounded. Yuga ripped into his own Link with as much as magic as his newly resurrected body could manage, sending anyone trying to help the man scrambling out of the way of the transformation magic. Dark had vanished, One Eye at Scarfy’s side, pressing down on his quickeningly darkening gut.

The chaos was a thing of beauty. Ghirahim had missed battlefields he realized as he breathed it all in. Blood, sweat, terror. It was intoxicating.

Link stood before him, thoughts clearly running wild behind his bright, terrified eyes.

“You’re dead,” He breathed. “I killed the both of you.”

Ghriahim grinned. “You did shit job, fortunately.”

Link charged with a sharp, furious sound, swinging Fi wide and hard, and Ghirahim dashed out of the way of the cut in a rain of diamonds, appearing behind Link, who spun, swiping down.

“You’re slow. Out of practice. When’s the last time you’ve wielded her weight?”

“Shut up.”

“Did you really think you could go again, after all these years, old man?”

“Shut up!”

If there was one thing Link was, it was tenacious. He chased each blow, each slice, with another, refusing to pause even for a moment. But Link was Hylian, with mortal lungs and muscles and heart, unlike Ghirahim’s metal chest. While Ghirahim could technically tire, could bleed, could be hurt, his body was made of far greater stuff than Link’s. Link was flagging, slowing, and Ghirahim, of course, was not.

There was a flicker of diamond in the air, as Ghirahim and the obsidian blade in his hand wove in and out of Link’s own swings with ease. Fi sang with hate and desperation when her blade met his own, and her distress each time Ghirahim landed a blow was intoxicating.

Link stumbled back, chest heaving, sword arm red and flowing, and Ghirahim couldn’t hold back a giggle.

“Retreat,” A heavy Sheikah—Yiga—accent breathed in his ear. Ere’s breath tickled as she flipped her demon carver around the back of her hand.

Someone across the battlefield, Slate, lay face down, still. Ere seemed to vibrate with glee at the sight of the red leaking from him.

“We have more than enough info to go off of. Let’s go, while we still have the upper hand.”

Ghirahim glanced around the battlefield, at the gore painting the grass. Upper hand indeed. But Ghirahim didn’t care about that. He wasn’t here to cut up the Links a bit. He was here to exterminate them, annihilate them, starting with his own.

“No,” he grit out, and Ere spluttered.

“No?”

“Take the painter and your lackeys. I know what I’m doing.”

“Ghira!”

Link righted himself, spurred on by their conversation, mouth twisted into a snarl. He charged, and Ghirahim ducked under his exposed right arm—sloppy, sloppy, so sloppy—and his blade sank in between Link’s ribs like a hot knife through warm butter.

Link’s eyes bulged.

“Sky!”

Someone was yelling-- Rainbow, who charged forward regardless of his missing sword, slamming into Ghirahim’s side. The kid was surprisingly strong, but Ghirahim was made of metal. He didn’t sway to children. Ghirahim batted Rainbow aside, turning back to Link. Slowly, he drew his blade free from Link’s ribcage, marveling at the wet squelch. Still, Link, swaying but determined, attempted to hold up Fi. His hand shook, red and slick, and Ghirahim laughed.

“Fall back, Ghira—” Ere shouted, rounding up her men, but Ghirahim waved her off.

“I had expected better,” He nearly sang as Link wheezed, lips bloody. “I’m disappointed.”

Somehow, somehow, Link managed to swing the Master Sword; the movement was weak, pathetically so, and it was easy to bat the sword to the side, sending it clattering to the stone below. Link was close enough to touch—Ghirahim grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him close against his chest. The touch, the heat, the smell of his blood was intoxicating.

“Let him go.” Rainbow wheezed, pulling himself to his feet, and Ghirahim’s blade found Link’s throat.

“Ghira, that is enough!” Ere was talking, her blade masters beginning to circle him, but Ghirahim couldn’t care less. “We had our orders!”

Link’s breath hitched as pin pricks of blood dripped down his neck.

“Tell me, boy,” Ghriahim purred as Rainbow looked up at him with panic in his eyes. “Have you ever seen a decapitation? Heard someone drowning in their own blood? The trick is to cut through slowly, avoiding the brain stem as you do so. You want them aware enough to feel it, after all.”

Rainbow swallowed, eyes wide as saucers.

“You don’t have to do this—” He started, taking a slow step forward.

Ghirahim made his first cut.

Ghirahim would give Link this, he was managing to stay surprisingly quiet, breath coming out of the slash in his throat in bloody bubbles. Oh well. That wouldn’t last long.

Suddenly, something grey and massive slammed into them—a dog? No, a wolf, massive and furious, its teeth gnashing for Ghirahim’s throat, ripping through glamor flesh and exposing the metal below. Ghirahim gasped, the weight of the animal near impossible, and it took surprising strength to anchor himself as the beast took his throat in its mouth. Ere's blade masters slid an arm under each of Ghirahim's arms and pulled him out from under it. The wolf lunged to them instead, teeth black and oily. Ere yelled something as a blade master went down, but Ghirahim couldn’t hear it over the surprised ringing in his ears. There was a flash of blue—a time gate.

Link’s collapsed body was the last thing Ghirahim saw before the time and space magic wrapped him up in its cocoon, yanking him from this plane and back, back, back, back underground to the Yiga’s pathetic little hideout. Ghirahim coughed, feeling his neck and the shredded flesh there, as Ere loomed above him.

“What,” she spat, “Is it about following orders do you not understand?”

Ghirahim wasn’t listening. No, he was too busy feeling Link’s hot blood on his hands, smearing it into the holes on his own throat, and knowing at that moment that he would do more than kill the Sky Child and his friends: Ghirahim was going to destroy them, completely and utterly, their stupid fucking dog included.

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

Since I was gone so long I thought I might do a little reintroduction 🧠

Hey people I love! 🫀

My name is Colson but you can call me Col or Jinx. I was on here originally as Jinx before my Tumblr disappeared but for about two years I've been back and mostly used Col. I'm great with either 🌹

I'm a trans man, he/they 🏳️‍⚧️

I'm mostly a Yungblud and Machine Gun Kelly fan page, I do fics, updates, and pic edits but I do a little bit of everything with a lot of my life sprinkled in, sometimes including my health problems (I'm open about all of it if you ever have questions) I actually love questions and asks as long as people are nice 🖤

Just thought I'd introduce myself in case any of my mutuals are new. This is somewhat of an 18+ blog, at least leaning that way but all I mean by that is sometimes subjects are a little mature. Thank you for stopping by and I hope you enjoy! Stay a while if you want just please be respectful. I don't tolerate any racism or hate against the LGBTQIA+ or mental or physical health hate. I'm sure I'm missing something but you get the idea I'm sure. I love you all and I'm here if you need me!

-Col the Jinx 💕

🖤 Masterlist 🖤

Yes Daddy Verse/Saga of Smut

Dom x Colson

Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly

I Think I'm Okay (prequel)

5 Times Col Came in His Pants and 1 Time He Finally Made Dom Do It

Drown Out The Demons

Romcom Bullshit

Much Better Workout

Sex and Candy

Claimed in Ink and Cum

Sweet as Sin

Yes Daddy

Spoiled Princess

What Daddy Likes

Like I Love You

Reverse Cowgirl Barbie

Sex on a Stick

Baby Boy

Pure No Longer

Sext Edits

Adventures in Toyland

Full on Sex Symbol

They Felt Eternal

Their Natural State

Ride or Die

Sin on Stilettos and a Cotton Candy Soul

Crimson Coated Candy

Piss Drenched Devil

Chocolate Kisses and Golden Showers

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

Sin in Snow White Taffeta and Latex

Freshly Fucked and Beautifully Filthy Manhandled Marionette of a Bride

Watercolor Wet Dream Come to Life

Drifting Deep in Hopefully Wet Dreamland

Flesh to Flesh

Five Times is a flashback series in the Yes Daddy Verse, it is set between the prequel and the first chapter- Yes Daddy. I placed it all in order 🖤

Adventures in Toyland is a follow up series to the Yes Daddy Verse, I'll still list them all in order and may add to any sections at any time. Let me know if you have ideas! 🖤

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding is a follow up series to the Yes Daddy Verse happening after Adventures in Toyland, they're all listed in order and you guessed it, the boys finally get married! 🖤

-Omegaverse AU-

Gunpowder and Watermelon

Autocorrected Anxiety Attacks and Messy Sexts

Pachyderms and Pointed Teeth

Knocked Up Knockouts and Cheesy Puns

A Little Less Sparkle, A Little More Reality

The Overwhelming Significance of Surprisingly Small Jellybeans

The Folly of Fracturing Sharp China and Soft Hearts

Fear and Lusting in London Flats

The Inevitability of Egos Clashing and Vicious Tongue Lashings

Of Sugar and Spice and Virgin Tight Asses

A Rebel's Yell and a Gangster's Paradise

Candy Hearts and Paper Cut Families

Photogenic Admissions and Confessional Panic Attacks

Little Shop of (W)horrors in a Pastel Hell

The Inescapable Moment of Truth and the Consequences of Open Black Hearts

Milk Chocolate Cherry Kisses and Birthday Wishes

Working Out the Kinks Under Hot Lights and Wanting Stares

The Taming of a Wild Boy

The Dynamics of a Bright Future and How to Reach It

Pride and Phenomenal Passion

Stereotypes and Salt in the Wound

What to Expect from an Expecting Omega

Patched Up Cuts and Mixed Up Blood

Alpha, Omega, a Nuisance, a Rebel

Lost Boy in Toyland

Starry Eyed and Punch Drunk

Mirrored Reflections and Babes from Outer Space

Believing in Love Songs and Tall Tales

Go Down Just Like Holy Mary

Piss Kinks, Morning Drinks, and Brand New Nicknames

Animated Arguments and Matching Love Languages

Screaming and Dreaming for the Future

Son of Rage and Love

Son of a Bitch and Edgar Allan Poe

Couch Confessions and Heavy Petting

Early Spawning and Other Lessons (Family Don't End With Blood)

One Flew Over the Klepto's Nest

Old Magic and Animal Aptitude

Strawberries and Cinnamon Toast

Your Body is a Wonderland

Born With Horns

In the Midst of Mild Madness

What's in a Name?

Spare the Rod Spoil the Alpha

To Cut or Not to Cut

Our Blood Got Mixed Up So I Guess We Belong to Each Other

Feels Like the Very First Time

Headboards and Scratched Tats

Best Alarm Clock

The Beasts Inside Disguised as Beauty

Popsicles and Pink Cheeks

The omegaverse AU is separate from the Yes Daddy Verse. The boys are still themselves but in an ABO world. Alpha Col and Omega Dom

-The Viking and the Fae- (an AU)

Where the Sea and Land Kiss

A Chieftain's Vow

Under the Thrall

The Long Sword's Hilt

Taste Like the Sea

Inga Knows Best

Feast Fit for a King

How the Waves Dance

The Forest Meets the Sea

The Soulmate Stalemate

The Taste of Truth and Tall Tales

The Wave Cresting

The Wave That Drowns

The Red Sea and the Viking Who Conquered It

Seal With a Kiss

A Broken Past and a Sea of Tears

The Siren's Tease and the Secrets Spilled

War and Pieces of Each Other

The Storm that Rocks the Waves

The Hush Between

Viking/Selkie AU. Separate from other fics but still Dom and Colson

[helluvahusker]

First chapter of the next installment of Sex Shop AU and Everyone is Poly bc I Said So is up! Click here or read below the cut

Blitzø: Hey u fre 2nite?

Stolas: Always free for you, darling.

Blitzø’s face burned. It was unfair how much he liked it when Stolas called him that. Not that it was special. Demons with posh accents tended to unironically call everyone “darling” and “dear” about as much as Blitzø condescendingly called everyone “bitch” and “sweetheart.” And he liked how enthusiastic Stolas always was about seeing him, even though it was mildly concerning that the bird was rarely busy in the evenings. Fuck, Blitzø really hoped that Stolas liked him for more than just being the only person to give him attention. 

Blitzø: Cn I cum ovar?

Stolas: Absolutely! What time should I expect you?

What time should he expect him? Well the store closed at 6 and Fizz was getting picked up by Oz at 7, Blitzø still had to shower, and Stolas lived on the nice side of town so Blitzø should probably give himself some extra time to get there…

Blitzø: Lke 7:30? Prbly gona help Fizz frist hes got a date

Stolas: Oooh, how exciting! I’ll see you at 7:30 then :)

Blitzø thumb up reacted the last message and closed his phone case, stowing it away in his pocket like it was supposed to be during work hours. He let out a long sigh. Tonight couldn’t come soon enough, even though he was dreading it. Like Fizz had said, one way or another, after tonight things would be different. Blitzø fucking hated change, but he’d long accepted that in most cases the only way out was through, and for some reason he would just never stop going through it. 

----------

As expected, Fizz invited Blitzø home with him after work to get ready for his date with Ozzie. It gave him a nice springboard to bounce his anxiety and outfit ideas off of. Freshly showered and digging desperately through his closet while clad only in a pair of briefs, he emerged victoriously with the two articles he’d been considering.

“Definitely the pink and green jester cap,” Blitzø said, scrutinizing the options Fizz was holding out for him. “It really brings out your eyes. And it’ll match the ropes Ozzie bought to use on you, ya know, if you guys take it that far tonight.” 

Fizz’s eyes went wide and dreamy at the thought. Then he shook his head, to clear it. “Hey, you don’t know he bought those for me. He was probably just expanding his collection.”

Blitzø shrugged. “Two things can be true. But I’m soooo sure him buying ropes you’d look fire in and the ballgag you said was your favorite at the same time he tried asking you out was a coincidence.” 

“Whatever,” Fizzie huffed. He tossed a set of shirts and pants onto the bed next to Blitzø. “Which of these?” 

Privately, Blitzø thought this was stupid. He was not the person to be asking about what colors went with what, especially if there was print or pattern involved. He kept his own wardrobe simple, mostly black red and white, with the occasional dress thrown in for when he felt like it. Those could be any color, since they didn’t really need to be matched to any other pieces.  Still, he helped Fizz as best he could, even though he thought his fellow imp looked gorgeous in everything, and especially in nothing. He was sure Ozzie would agree.  

Blitzø leaned back against the headboard of Fizz’s bed, which was big enough for an imp plus any other demon (or two) that he might care to invite into it. “Wanna have a quickie before you go?” 

Fizz shot him a very unimpressed look. “And show up to my date with your jizz leaking out of me?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Blitzø said, a lazy satisfied grin flashing across his face as he briefly relived several satisfying memories. 

“As delightful as that sounds,” Fizz drawled, “Those were very different times. Besides, I think we’re both saving up our energy for other people tonight, aren’t we?” He gave Blitzø a pointed look. “You text Stolas yet?”

Blitzø scowled. “Yes mom, I’ve got it all figured out. I’m going over to his place. That way he’ll be comfortable and I can leave if I have to.” 

Fizz raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t want to meet at a neutral location for this?” 

“If I did that he’d immediately know something was up and then he’d probably doom spiral. I’m trying not to scare him off, remember?” 

Fizz grinned crookedly. “I was more worried about him thinking it’s just a regular booty call, but it sounds like you put some thought into this. Pretty sweet of you to know what kind of things make him freak out.” 

“It’s not like we just jump straight into fucking!” Blitzø said defensively. “We always talk first. Usually. And after. I’ll just… bring it up before we start going at it and it’ll be fine. Tell me it’s going to be fine.” 

“Blitz.” Fizz finished pulling up his pants and leapt into the bed, still shirtless, so he could pull his partner into a hug. “It’s gonna be fine. Just make sure you’re clear about what you want, and try not to assume the worst like you always do.” 

Blitzø groaned, burying his face in Fizz’s neck. “Feelings fucking suck.” 

“Yeah yeah.” Fizzarolli patted his back soothingly. “I know big guy, you’re a strong scary imp but give you some emotions and you crumble like a house built in the greed ring.”

“Fuck you,” Blitzø said halfheartedly, biting at Fizz’s bare shoulder in a weak attempt at retaliation. 

Fizz chuckled, shoving him away. “Hey, I don’t need any marks from you tonight, Ozzie’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

Blitzø widened his eyes and made his mouth a comical O. “Oh shit, you mean we’re not fucking?” 

“Idiot.” Fizz rolled his eyes good naturedly and slid off the bed so he could finally put his shirt on. Blitzø liked watching him do up his buttons nearly as much as he liked watching them be undone. Nearly. “He might think you’re a possessive bastard who’s trying to send a message. Or that we’re playing a game.”

“Wellll I don’t hate that idea,” Blitzø mused, “Like we could do that as a bit or a scene sometime. Not to be a cuck but marking you up and sending you off to someone else to get fucked could be kinda hot.” 

Fizz laughed. “Sounds like something a cuck would say.”

Blitzø stuck his tongue out at him. 

“But I want this date to be about me and Ozzie, you know?” Fizz adjusted his collar, glancing at Blitzø in the mirror. “I don’t want him to get it in his head that he’s just a part of our kink. He can be a part of it later, if he wants but I really fucking like him, and I want him to know that. Okay, Blitz?”

“You got it, Fizzie-pop.” Blitzø gave him a two-fingered salute. “You woo that fucking demon, woo him good.” 

Fizz straightened his back like he was standing at attention. His smile was devious. “Oh I fucking plan to.” 

[skazoo]

you're white noise.

↳ lee felix x f!reader

it's beginning to look a lot like you need to get out of your head and develop an emotional intelligence so that you don't make it so difficult for the people who love you to help you. or a "if you tell me about myself pt.2"

length. 2.2k

genre. demon slayer!au is back bitches! , friends(?) to lovers, fluff, crack and very light angst.

warnings/tags. language, mentions of death, injuries, blood, kny canon violence i think that's it.

networks. @kflixnet

notes. after the longest wait, the second part of my demon slayer!au is OUT!!! i've had a rough six months (🥲) but i've won back my inspiration from the clutches of procrastination. this is a little something but stay tuned for new projects!!

part one of the demon slayer!au can be read here!

i’m desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

the only thing you can hear is the forest's dull breathing.

the white expanse of the snow-covered ground acts as a blanket, and your stealthy feet thump softly on the ground.

a stray ray of a winter sun peeks through the branches of high pines drawing ever-changing shapes on your winter kimonos. felix’s has golden details, of course.

“we’ve been walking for hours can we please stop for just a second, i beg yo-”

“shut up hyunjin!” yours and felix’s combined whisper disturbs a small flock of birds that flies away in search of peace and quiet.

it’s the twelfth time in thirty minutes that you have to aggressively shush the redheaded slayer, and you can’t confidently say that you blame him.

when changbin assigned the three of you on ‘the most challenging mission of your young lives’ he didn’t bother to mention that the hard part would be finding the damn demon and not fighting it.

on top of that, the long walk in utter silence has given you plenty of time to think about everything. about him.

after that fateful night in the armory where felix told you the feelings he had for you, he kissed you, you kissed him back and you fled from your brother’s punishment in a summer breeze, things didn’t go exactly how one would think.

the night turned into the next day and things were awkward between you. it was obvious there were unspoken expectations and questions that neither of you wanted to voice out loud but that were painfully obvious to everyone around you, especially hyunjin.

the day quickly turned into a week and when things stayed awkward, it was a mutual decision -–or so you convinced yourself— to forget everything and start fresh. a new improved life in which you didn’t have an oblivious mortal enemy but a second good friend and sparring buddy, ready to help you become a great slayer whose lips you dream about at night. right.

now, as you’re standing ankles deep into candid snow, in a forest so big you can’t remember which way you came from, and with the aforementioned good friend walking just two steps ahead of you, you come to the understanding that it’s been exactly four months and twenty days since you realized how emotionally immature you are, and how felix is the exact damn opposite.

and yes. you’re keeping count.

felix abruptly stops and you have to suppress a groan of pain as hyunjin’s katana slams on the shoulder wound hidden under your kimono.

bless his heart, he doesn’t know. no one knows that since the last mission together you didn’t get out unscratched and a total winner, and nobody needs to know.

especially not felix. you don’t need him to think that you’re weak. you don’t need him to realize what a fraud you are. you don’t need him to take back everything he said that night because that’s what has been keeping you going these past months and you would not be able to bear it.

“did you hear that?” felix’s whisper materializes out of his mouth in a little steam cloud.

hyunjin’s head peeks from behind your smaller frame. “yeah, it was the sound of me giving up-”

“i’m serious hyun, it was like someone was slithering around us. we’re not alone.”

there's complete silence for a second, then again. a long hiss echoes through the forest.

hyunjin’s face turns pale all of a sudden. “wait, did you say ‘someone’? why did you say someone felix?”

a quiet mocking smile grows on the blond’s mouth. “if you listened to anything changbin’s tells us before we go on a mission you would know.”

a small snort of disbelief and he’s now whining to you, bottom lip childishly pouted. “Y/N do something he’s being a little bitch.” you have to keep the laugh that bubbles in your chest to yourself or you will definitely attract unwanted attention.

“hyune, baby, we’re looking for a snake demon. you have to pay attention.” you turn to the other slayer with a resolute expression. “it must have sensed our presence. we should split up. surround it.”

you see the hesitant flicker of his brows before he even opens his mouth, and there it is again, that crippling, irrational anxiety that he doesn’t trust you. doesn’t value you. doesn’t like you.

you feel like if you don’t show him that you are worthy now, he will never see it again.

“we can do it felix.” he looks hyunjin in the eyes, then shifts to yours. a silent nod makes you hopeful again. “i can do it.” you whisper only for yourself to hear.

and so the three of you have the clearing surrounded and now the only thing left to do is to focus. possibly not on the fact that you’re literally about to fight to the death to gain the respect of the person who literally told you he almost L-worded you even when you were treating him like a terrorist. in retrospect, you should realize that you were a complete idiot, but anyway.

but everything –of course– happens almost comically fast.

from your peripheral vision you catch the glimpse of a tail and before you know it you're being dragged on the freezing snow by your ankle. the wound on your shoulder opening again and leaving behind a trail of deep, incriminating red.

it’s so fast, so confusing, so painful that all you can do is let out a guttural scream that completely drowns out felix screaming your name from the other side of the clearing.

trying to take back the reins of the situation, while the demon forcefully hurls you forward, you reach for the katana in the sheath on your hip and violently and desperately plant it in the ground, putting an end to your target’s manhandling.

the second you’re up again and manage to steal a look at your partners you dreadfully realize that they are both looking at you with worry and a stronger undertone of disappointed anger, and suddenly the worst that could happen is not being killed or transformed into a demon but being abandoned by those you love because of a stupid lie. because of irrational insecurities.

as they run to your aid, taking a defensive stance beside you, you know what’s coming.

“we’re on the same team, why the hell are you hiding things from me!?” felix’s grunted shout reaches you even if the demon is roaring with hunger.

hyunjin joins. “why are you hiding things from us, Y/N! i’m- we’re your friends for fuck’s sake! is it that hard to ask for help!?”

you’ve never seen hyunjin being so aggressive in a fight. he moves on the snow with so much lightness that it might seem like he’s flying, and every time the demon snaps at him, he’s ready to use his enemy’s momentum to inflict small, deep cuts in the thick gray scales of the monster.

“when was this!?” felix takes hyunjin’s place as the redhead is thrown on the ground. his head forcefully bangs against a fallen trunk.

“i know! and i’m sorry, but i really don’t think this is the best time!” you’re out of breath as you dance with your partner around the contorting body of the reptile demon. you have to hold your shoulder with your other hand or you know things will get ugly for you.

he dodges a clawed hand directed at his freckled face. “it’s the only time, Y/N! why do you keep ignoring the fact that we care for you!? i don’t want you to die! is it that bad for you that you have to keep secrets from us?!”

you stay silent because what can you possibly say? that you’re scared shitless of being abandoned? that you don’t want him to move on from you even if you know that you’re the only one who wanted to stay friends? you can’t because he doesn’t deserve your paranoia.

your katana cuts deep into the demon’s side and felix goes on.

“i literally L-word you!” you almost freeze on the spot. “you changed me, Y/N and i wished i’d changed you even if just a little that night!” he’s losing concentration on the fight and he doesn’t even notice. all your fault.

“but you did felix, and for the better! i swear i’m sorry!” you plead, your voice straining against your throat.

as you dodge the demon’s scaled tail, the scene that unfolds before you seems to go in slow motion.

felix is too focused on you. his eyebrows furrowed in question, his eyes pleading for answers and on his lips, there's the beginning of your name, about to be uttered in the most lovingly, humanly possible way you’ve ever heard it.

but —and of course, there's a but— hyunjin is still trying to get up from where he was thrown and too far away anyway to shield felix from the clean cut of his head the demon is about to make. you are the only one who’s aware of the threat, you’re the only one who can do something.

the forest is silent again. the rumbling of the fight is completely muted by your mind. nothing moves. nothing exists except for you and the demon with bared teeth who's coming in your direction.

touch him and you’re dead.

you close your eyes and put your sword back before slowly unsheathing it again.

then all you have to do is breathe.

you breathe and burning flames shoot out to devour the demon’s body completely.

it doesn’t last long but it feels like a whole lifetime. for a second inside your head, there’s only anger that later leaves space for pride and an unbridled obsession to protect. then static sound.

when you zone back into the real world you slowly take a look around you.

the line of trees that marked the edge of the clearing has now been completely torn down. little fires still dance around, melting the white snow and creating a beautiful contrast.

behind you, you can hear felix and hyunjin’s ragged breathing.

“this is going to sound controversial but i think that went well.” hyunjin wheezes, folded in half, his hands on his knees and a surprised expression on his flushed face.

the other is looking at you with an indecipherable expression and your fight or flight instincts almost kick in. he’s studying you.

then felix sprints to you and tackles you to the snow in a bone-crushing hug. you can feel his heart beating like a drum in his chest, teaching yours how to love.

you wince. “felix, my shoulder…”

he takes your face in his gelid hands and just looks at you. he looks at the snowflakes trapped in your hair. he looks at your reddened nose, your lucid eyes, and the little puffs of vapor that escape your slightly parted mouth. with pain, he looks at your shoulder that’s still silently bleeding.

“Y/N…”

you squeeze your eyes in shame and understanding. “i know…”

his forehead touches yours and you feel the heat of his body envelope your skin.

you want to tell him everything that you’ve been keeping inside for these past months. you want to cry and assure him that it was not his fault but only yours and you want to tell him you’re sorry for pushing him away, for being too scared to give yourself to him.

you want to tell him this and more but he looks at you as if you’re a star and maybe he already knows everything.

honestly speaking, you're so tired of being scared away from love by your own mind. you know you can break free from the shackles that you put on yourself too many years ago. and with felix by your side, with hyunjin, changbin, with love, everything will be easier to bear.

a bird chirps in the distance and you’re forced out of your trance state.

felix’s golden hair reflects a single ray of sun that breaks through the high branches of the forest. “Y/N.”

“what?”

“i’m gonna kiss you, ok?”

you chuckle. “i haven’t showered in four days, felix.”

“okay?” he’s pouting and you can’t possibly say no to him.

“okay.” and it’s the softest kiss you’ve ever had. it’s hot and freezing, it’s so deep and carefree and it’s perfectly him. it’s an ‘i L-word you kiss’ and you couldn’t want anything more.

it doesn’t last long because from your left hyunjin always understands when is the right time to speak up.

“wait guys, am i- please stop kissing guys. am i doing this right?” he’s awkwardly trying to cut through the demon’s neck with his katana.

this time you possibly can’t stop yourself from snorting loudly and happily at your friend’s antics. felix on the other hand hasty gets up and looks like he can’t understand how a skilled slayer like hyunjin can be this incompetent. “hyunjin, it’s a demon you can’t cut his head like you’re cutting bread for fuck’s sake. it’s a clean cut c’mon.”

when the three of you finally make out the blurred outline of the snow-covered headquarters you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

in the distance you can see your brother smiling fondly at you, his knowing eyes fixed on the bandaged wound on your shoulder.

“where's my favorite idiot, uh?” his hands come as a megaphone around his mouth.

hyunjin looks confused and admittedly, a little bit offended. “i’m right here…?”

he gathers you in his arms as you sprint to him. “surprisingly enough i was not talking about you this time.”

[sam-glade]

WIP Tropes Tag

Tagged by the incredible @sunset-a-story here. Thank you 💜

Rules: highlight the tropes that feature in your WIP

And I'm passing the tag to: @tisiphonewolfe @sarahlizziewrites @tabswrites @acertainmoshke and anyone else who wants to join.

Oh dear. I feel like this requires a bit of a preface.

Gifts of Fate is intended as a deconstruction of the Chosen One trope - the villain wants to artificially create incredibly powerful Swords to serve as honour guard, so they put a demon in Lissan's head. Lissan's goal is to stop being the Chosen One and get rid of the demon.

Bolded for Gifts of Fate, italicised for the sequels.

Found Family | The Chosen One | The Martyr | Surprise, Bitch! You thought I was dead | Enemies/Rivals put together for a project | Teen gets kidnapped; parent goes on killing spree to find them | Happy Ever After | Black and White Morality | Fight scene turns into a make-out session | Only one bed | The airport/train/bus station love confession | AUs | Amnesia story | Villain and hero fall in love | Love triangles | Bookworm falls for the bad guy | Killing off the audience’s fave characters | Smalltown falls for Big-City | Princess kisses a frog & gets Prince Charming | Villain redeemed | Protagonist beats “best in the world” | Enemies to friends to lovers | It was all a dream! | Coming of age story

For readability's sake, here's the list:

Gifts of Fate:

Found Family

The Chosen One (obviously)

Surprise, Bitch! You thought I was dead

Black and White Morality

Protagonist beats "best in the world"

Coming of age story

sequels:

The Martyr - Sigh. Love me a good martyr subplot.

Surprise, Bitch! You thought I was dead - for a very background character in GoF, and a more prominent one in the sequel

Enemies/Rivals put together for a project - 😈

Smalltown falls for Big-City

Also some tropes I hesitated at:

Only one bed - There are 3 rooms and 4 characters. I had to go and check that the room where two of the characters are staying has two beds. It does.

Killing off the audience’s fave characters - I'll give you a solid 'maybe'

Love triangle - I'm... honestly not sure if this one counts or not. To quote a beta reader: 'it's a dumbass triangle'

Bookworm falls for the bad guy - I initially read it as 'bad boy', which happens in the Princeling's backstory

[teenandbeyond]

hi could a request a demon fem reader x gojo where reader is just bewitchingly beautiful ( and low-key evil n v powerful ) and she joins the uni where gojo is a student of and he tries impressing her n shit n idk more things could be added but ya it has smut n it's very smexy n romantic sort of but sub!gojo :O

Gojo x Dom Fem. Demon Reader

Interesting, let's see how it goes.

Want the Dom Gojo version? Here.

Want more from meh? Masterlist!

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

🕶 Please Her 🕶 (Jujutsu Kaisen)

Warning(s): College AU, flirty reader, smut, dirty talk, didn't really know where to go with it

It's your second semester at a new college and you've already got a guy trying to impress you, not doing too good so far when he's wearing shades indoors...

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

He could feel you before you entered the room.

As you entered, he lowered his shades, like he couldn't see you clearly past them.

You were beautiful.

You immediately met his eyes, you could feel his power, too.

And when your lips lifted into a smirk, he decided.

He wanted you.

The next day, he made sure to make a point of falling into the chair next to you.

"Mm, are you here to dispose of me, curse user?"

"Not necessarily," he drew out his syllables, leaning on a palm, "I just wanted to get a better view."

"You're not going to get that from the very back of the class."

He met your gaze over his shades after turning his head your way, "I didn't mean the lesson. I'd much prefer to study you, instead. Better view than that geezer any day."

"Sacrificing your grades for me? I'm flattered," you offered a shark-like grin full of sarcasm.

"No need to worry about me. I have the best grades in this school," he smiled.

You rolled your eyes, kicking up your feet, "Of course you do."

"Miss [Name]! Put your feet down, right-"

Your professor cut himself off with a glare from you, your head tilted back, challenging him to say the rest.

All he did was clear his throat, "I'll let you off this time since this is your first day, but don't expect such leniency next time."

"Well, aren't you the rebellious one? Someone should tame that disobedience of yours," he purred out.

"I don't get tamed. It's not in my nature."

And every day after that, he finds something to brag to you about.

Trying to impress you, you supposed.

But he wasn't your type.

He was pretty, sure, but you weren't into men who weren't worth what they bragged about.

He just seemed like another egotistical pretty boy who was used to having his way in life.

And why hasn't he reported you yet? You were a demon, his type doesn't let you cruise around innocent people so easily. It's why you had to transfer quite a few times.

His answer?

"I mean, other than a few little pranks, you don't mean much harm. Just another student trying to get their degree. As long as it stays that way, you'll be fine."

He seemed to care more about getting in your pants than much else.

He even brought you your favorite drink from some cafe a few minutes away.

"How the hell do you know I like this?" you ask after an experimental sip.

"I watch."

"Creepy. And I'm a demon."

All he does is smile.

You have a strange dynamic of banter, Gojo not really getting past your wall.

"We can't go on one date, beautiful?"

"My dates include an exclusion of clothes."

"I certainly wouldn't mind that," he smiles, flashing his pearly whites.

"You haven't earned the privilege, human."

"I will..."

Things change one day when a sleazy student decides to grope you on your way out of your last class. Even after you tell him to stop.

You both end up in a hidden corner with you tugging hard on his ear, threatening him.

"Listen here, human. You have two options...You can either use this pencil and stab yourself in your poorly endowed genitals. Or I can tear off your ear for your poor listening abilities."

"You crazy bitch, you think you scare me? I've had crazier girlfriends."

"Oh, have you, now? Well, I don't like being second best to anybody. May I show you why I'm the one to fear?"

You mute him with your power, he's unable to be heard by powerless humans. And you slowly tug further and further away from his head.

He tries to struggle away, but your power holds him in place.

"You don't deserve these ears anyway, much too pretty for that attitude of yours," you grin as he begins to scream.

"Stop! Stop! It's going to tear off!" he shrieked.

"That's the point."

You silently glance at the ear in your hand, then back at the screaming young man.

And you laugh. Tossing your head back, hard.

"Fascinating! Humans are very expressive."

"What's going on here?"

You blandly glance over to see Gojo moving closer, "You're not blind. I think it's blatantly obvious."

"Gojo! Gojo, help me, man! This bitch is crazy!"

"Silly human, he can't-"

"Help you? Lovely [Name] here doesn't seem like the type to do something without reason."

He could hear him? Right...his power.

"So what did you do, Kimura?"

"Nothing! All I did was flirt a little and she went nuts!"

You stab a pencil into your desired area, getting another satisfying scream out of him, "You touched me without my permission. And even after my merciful warning, you kept doing it...You were confident, too. I can only imagine how many human women it took to gain it. What do you have to say about that?"

All he could do was groan in pain.

"Well, at least now you can live alone like you deserve. Only desperate little humans would get with a man lacking an ear and a hard-on. Now, get out of my sight," your power releases him as you dismiss him with a hand.

You don't turn to look at him as he rushes to hobble away.

But before he can turn around the corner, his body freezes in place and shatters like glass.

"Foolish human. I don't let scum like you live."

"Well, well. Interesting to finally see your power in action."

You jump at the voice next to you, when did Gojo get that close?

"You didn't try to help him."

"He was weak anyway. But I told you not to harm anyone, or we'd have a problem."

"I have selective hearing," you smirked, leaning against a brick wall.

"Selective hearing, huh? Of course, you do," he hummed.

Before you could blink, he was pressed into you, arm against your throat.

"I should kill you."

"Will you?"

"Hmm," his gaze bore through you, "It'd be a shame...I like you."

"I am quite the charmer," you don't break his stare even as his thumb brushes against your cheek, red staining it when it leaves you.

"Red suits you," he muttered, looking down at the blood.

"It suits anyone."

"But I like it on you, I'm not talking about everyone else," he drags his thumb over your lips. Teasing it between them.

You tease back by accepting it inside when he meets your gaze again.

He sucks in a breath.

"Your bravado doesn't fool me, human," you kiss the pad of his finger.

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't the type to lead in a game like this. But that's okay..."

Gojo can't say he expected to be under you in his bed... But he can't say he minded either.

"Fuck..." his lip quivered as he watched your head bob up and down.

This view of you should've been deadly.

You moved to kiss along his thigh, "You don't deserve me pleasuring you, human."

He knows. He doesn't deserve to see something so pretty.

"I want you to prove you're worthy to be inside me."

He eagerly exchanged positions with you, whimpering like it was the best meal he's ever had.

You grip his hair tight, and you briefly think about it being painful, but he doesn't say anything to indicate it is.

All he does is sigh out, "A delicacy."

After he eagerly cleans the mess he made, you decide he's done enough to earn your warm tightness.

He whimpers as you engulf him, his fingers digging into your behind.

"Please..."

"Is Gojo Satoru begging? Who would've thought you'd something so beneath you?"

But you give him the privilege and move.

His head tosses back in a choked moan.

"You're such a pretty little human," you smile, hand cupping his face, "I might have to keep you around, you desperate little thing."

You gasp as his hips jut into you particularly rough.

"I'm the boss, here. I didn't tell you to move, yet," you lean down, teeth gently tugging at his bottom lip.

"So tight..." he shivers as you squeeze him.

"Poor little human, you can't handle it, hm?" you cooed, brushing your lips against his.

Gojo should've flipped you over and rammed into you for thinking he was weak...but he couldn't...because your warmth, your tightness, really did have him weak.

And when you let out a little whimper after it hit the right spot.

He had to bite his lip to stop himself from coming undone already.

"I-I can, don't underestimate me."

"Oh, I'm sure," you kiss his jaw, "You can move now. Impress me."

He flipped you over, he needed to get some of his pride back.

And he stared at you, your face, your heaving breasts, your belly...

"Are you going to move or what-?"

With a groan, he slid into you.

And you simply purred in delight.

His hips snapped quickly in and out of you, the moans passing his lips desperate.

It was just too cute to you.

Having an arrogant egoist reduced to a whimpering, whining mess.

"If you do well enough, I might have to date for this cock of yours. It isn't half bad," you sigh in delight, "You're doing well for a human...Oh, does that arouse you? You like being my little pleasure device?"

He twitched inside you again, you could tell he was close.

"Y-yes..." he groaned.

"I suppose I can reward you, now. Go ahead."

He sped up, on the brink until finally...

"Oh, shit...Fuck! Mmm," he groaned under his breath as his pace stuttered.

You run a hand through his hair, "Have you been sated, human?"

He took a few breaths, "Mm...But you haven't. You've never been."

"I'm quite used to that," you chuckle.

"But I want you to be," he kissed along your collarbone.

"Well, that was quick...Sure you can last for another?"

"I can go as many times as you need me to."

"Challenge accepted, human. Beware..."