#his amusement? his desire to be the most powerful in every era?

[rboooks]

DP x DC: Child Support

John Constantine has done a lot in his life. Some good, some bad but most have been dangerous.

He sold his soul to as many powerful beings as he could so that they could fight each other over it and keep him in a safe-ish stalemate. It was a risk, one where he had to sweet talk, maneuver, and sometimes seduce his way through, but he's always come on top.

Waking to his wards broken as easily as someone walking through a still river meant he had finally met his match. John woke to the Time looming over him in its adult form.

Clockwork, the physical concept of Time, smashed into a body and consciousness. It's so rare to see the god outside his tower; to even be in his presence was such a high honor that families would keep proof of the encounter for generations to brag about.

"Hello, Johnny," Clockwork said in his specialized adult form. The nickname curved with fondness. This form is an even rarer sight to behold. Clockwork looked about to be in his late twenties, dressed in a Victorian-era suit with dark black hair, he would look human were it not for his pure red eyes and time staff.

He looks gorgeous.

John smiled nervously. "Clockwork. What do I owe the pleasure?"

The ghost hums. "I have come to make a deal with you."

See, that's not something John would like to hear from the second-strongest being in the multiverse. He was second to the Ghost King. Some would even argue that Clockwork was stronger were it not for his desire to remain neutral in conflicts for the sake of different timelines.

"What kind of deal?" John asks with a lustful grin, running his eyes up and down Clockworks form. It looks like he may have to seduce his way out of this again and hopefully could convince the god of Time that he was a great time in bed instead of dead once more

The Master of Time appears amused but unwilling to climb under the sheets with him. Bollocks, if he wasn't back for another month of pleasure then the deal would likely be unpleasant.

Even if Clockwork could be considered a past fling, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't ask for something harmful. John had less powerful exes who would gladly have him killed just as likely as they would key his car.

To make thinga worst, Clockwork reached into his gentleman jacket to pull out a small jar. John's heart leaped in horror at what was inside.

"I have collected every piece of your soul through challenges, purchases, or even offerings. I own you entirely, John Constantine," Clockwork said, his warm tan skin rippling into blue as the Ghost turned the jar this way and that. "I wish to return it to you, with my added protection, should the old contracts which you swindled will not seek out revenge in exchange, you must take responsibility."

John can barely breath "Responsibility of what?"

Clockwork gestures behind him, and out of the shadows step a human boy. A human boy that looks precisely like human-Clockwork as a teenager but with John's eyes and the shape of John's nose.

No.

He knows that despite how similar they look, Humans and the citizens of the Infinite Realms aren't biologically the same. He just didn't think that meant this.

That he could be so careless it resulted in this.

Clockwork waves a hand between them. "Jonny meet your son, Danny."

John choked as Danny awkwardly waved at him. He even stuffs his hands into his pockets the same way John would stuff his hands into his trench coat.

This can't be happening.

"Our son is half human, and it's unhealthy for humans to remain in the Infinite Releams for long periods. I now require you to raise him on Earth until his core is ready. The day our son is of age, you will have your soul back with my Infinite protection. Danny will take the throne of the Infinite Realms upon his marriage so do help him find a good suitor."

Clockwork considers the rapidly paling human with large amounts of glee. "I trust this would be acceptable? I must warn you, I have raised him outside of time, so he is a bit behind with modern technologies and references. He also has a ghost form he must use for his health. Oh, and, Danny has a peanut allergy, so keep that in mind for his meals. If anything were to happen to Danny while he lives with you, I would erase this entire place and not through time manipulation. I will simply kill everything. Keep you alive so I can kill every version of those you love across the multiverse in front of you. Try not to slip away from your child support to prevent that, yes?"

John faints.

Danny Fenton had to be removed from his dimension to erase Dan from existence. His future self had nearly escaped the Clock tower they couldn't risk a second time. Clockwork had told him removing him from his dimension, his timeline, would never allow Dan to exist. It broke his heart but to save the many lives that Dan took Danny had agree.

His friends and family were devastated even if Clockwork told them Danny would be allowed visits. Just nothing longer than a week and six months between visits. He had moved into Clockwork's haunt, becoming an assistant to the master of time. He helped weave timeliness, and suggested possible choices for various creatures of various situations across the multiverse.

Danny helped Clockwork control fate, if that wasn't ridiculous. He even tried his ghost powers, to the point he felt he could truelt match his mentor in a fight.

He spent two years like this- or two years in his home dimension. Time didn't move in Clockwork's tower so despite the amount of time he lived there Danny didn't look a day over fourteen still. It irked him like nothing else to see Tucker and Sam as sixteen year Olds while he still looked like he was a freshman.

(It also hurt to see them move on without him.)

However, due to his halfa status, his human side was starting to fall apart. He needed sun, food, sleep, and other humans. He would go mad otherwise, and none of this would matter if it resulted in Dan.

Clockwork couldn't put him back home. He couldn't even put Danny in an alternate timeline, for he could not be close to people he knew.

He had to go to one that had no various of anyone Danny knew. Thankfully the Infinite Releams is connected to plenty of places that fit the bill. All Clockwork had to do was twist a few small events, and boom, Danny Fenton would have a perfectly legal background with everything he need for survive.

If only his mentor wasn't such a michivious prankster.

" You want me to pretend to be your love child with some random magic guy?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Trust me Danny, it's going to be hilarious."

(Part 2)

[odditycircus-2002]

Based on this song

Now imagine this in the old era before Mortal Kombat 1: Medusa!Reader manages to make her way into Kotal Khan’s court after being vouched for by Reptile. While Kotal Khan is, understandably, suspicious of the woman that used to work for Shang Tsung (but unaware you were anything more than a trophy wife) you showed no prominent desire or allegiance to Mileena or the deceased Shao Khan. Although, you did win his favor by dutifully serving Kotal alongside Reptile, whom you’ve seen to grow deeply attached to, and when you revealed D’Vorah to be a double agent for the Fallen Elder God Shinnok. Meanwhile, Reptile continued to court you the Saurian way and grew deeper and deeper in love with you. You who seemed so elegant, intelligent, faithful, and ruthless when need be. Reptile even went as far as to gift you a flower thought to be long extinct from Zattera, as a token of his undying devotion to you.

Yet, it was all a ruse. In reality, you were a snake in the garden disguised as a rose. You had your own agenda and priorities, which you kept under lock and key by acting submissive to those in power. You exposed D’Vorah because, while her allegiance to Shinnok meant the destruction of Outworld, you refused to let Quan-chi or any of his allies destroy it. No, Outworld will crumble and fall by your hands. Which is why you kept in contact with Mileena unbeknownst to Reptile and Kotal, and plotted with her.

Your plans came to fruition during a Ball Kotal held for all those in power and nobles of Outworld. You danced with Reptile seemingly smitten with the Saurian, to which everyone else looked at with contempt and disgust. Not you though, with your loving smile and how you kissed his cheek. Eventually, getting sick of the looks from everyone else, Reptile excused you and him to have a private moment on one of the palace’s balconies. There, Reptile popped the question and asked you to be his mate for life. You give an amused smile as you turned him down, stating that there’s no point as it wouldn’t be long anyways. This confused the Saurian we’d body suddenly seized up as if every nerve in his body turned to ice, thanks to the lipstick you laced with paralyzing Kytinn poison. You calmly stepped away from the growing puddle of acidic drool.

You admit to the last Saurian that while you are genuinely fond of him and appreciates his devotion, he’s really more of a pet to you. Shang Tsung on the other hand was more of your equal. You revealed to Reptile as he writhed from his circulatory system shutting down, that you weren’t just Shang Tsung’s wife but his partner. You reminisce how the late Sorcerer made life invigorating and sublime until Shao Khan took that all away from you. At that, you took the rare flower that Reptile gifted you, that you placed earlier on your head, and threw it to the ground and grind it beneath your heel. If you can’t make Dhao Khan pay, then you’ll make his legacy, Outworld, pay his debt. If Reptile could cry, he probably would. But you shushed the Saurian and cooed condescendingly that you won’t destroy him, as he’d make a most rare addition to your garden. So you turn him into stone while capturing his heartbroken expression. You giggle and give one last kiss to his snout before you walk away to watch the rest of your plan unfurled.

You smiled and hummed to yourself at the sound of screams and blood curdling howls as guests at the parties met their end from the Tarkatans you let in, after poisoning Kotal’s guards. You walked into the main room just in time to watch the carnage and mayhem, as one by one, nobles and generals alike were torn to shreds by the Tarkatans or choked on their own blood from making the mistake of drinking from the wine offered. At the center, was Kotal Khan fighting for his life, swinging his sword in large strokes against the hordes of Tarkatans who fall to his blade easily. It won’t be long now before Mileena descends on the Osh-tek to reclaim her throne. Putting you one step closer to your goal.

[terrence-silver]

Terry’s reaction, in different eras, to beloved getting lots of genuine male attention

Contrary to popular fandom belief, I don't think Terry Silver would enjoy flaunting his beloved on his arm even while everyone else wants them and makes no secret of it. Like, he might appear cocksure, confident and nonchalant on the surface, but the man's a rollercoaster of emotions, schemes, trauma, violence, extremes and unhinged tendencies beneath all that.

---

― Like, for example, Twig might be beaming because for once, he feels like he's one of those cool kids dating someone universally well liked (and desired) even while he simultaneously might feel immensely slightly threatened beneath all that and might go to even more extreme lengths than usual to shower beloved with gifts, acts of service, material goods, his own affection and love and just stuff in order make sure their attention never, ever strays from him because he's just doing so much for them with an effort to cloud their eyes from everyone else pining after them. Because he's making sure to buy the assurance of their loyalty, if nothing else, because admittedly, there's a bit of pathological desperation involved on his behalf and the conviction that if he doesn't overcompensate with people, he'll lose them forever. Sure, he feels like he's hit a milestone. Graduated and grown from his awkward Vietnam years to someone who's won the heart of a person everyone wants but can never have, but deep down he has this bubbling, overwhelming anxiety that he isn't strong enough or just plain enough to keep beloved now that he actually has them, fueling his own paranoia and doubts even more so and pushing him into what he sees as 'building himself up to new heights' in every sense to be, as he sees it, tough enough to maintain what's his and not end up being a loser, kickstarting his trajectory into fanaticism, or rather, the fanatical pursuit of power, strength, control and dominance, because if you're the biggest, baddest shark in the metaphorical pond, Twig figures nobody would ever dare take what's yours. Right?

― Terry in the 80's would almost prefer, that in the off chance of beloved being a woman, that all this sexual and romantic attention stemmed from other women, because that's something he wouldn't necessarily view tremendously unfavorably, if you get my meaning --- hey, it's the 80's, after all. In fact, he might find it titillating and perversely amusing in a way he doesn't see other men, even though, irregardless of beloved's gender, genuine interest to someone his will always boil down to him viewing it as a declaration of open war no matter the combination of suitors that come forward and what their own respective genders and sexualities are. It is just that Terry Silver, with some era appropriate machismo added to the mix, might see other men as a legitimate threat to someone his, and so his pride in flaunting beloved on his arm could fester really quickly and he's capable of doing a 180 degree shift in no time at all and going from a worldly man of leisure freely showing off his paramour to a downright barbarian who is just as capable of shutting them inside of his mansion so nobody can look at them ever again. Nobody but him, of course. Such is his duality. Terry is capable of being as confident as he is absolutely and unbelievably volatile, so naturally, the realization that every man around them wants beloved quickly goes from a source of triumphant pride and cool poise to him just feverishly plotting revenge against everyone and everything while beloved's basically under house arrest. The general public knows Silver was seeing someone special at one point in time, but they haven't seen them in...oh, I don't know, years?

― For old man Terry, all these other guys surrounding beloved like so many vultures might be a reminder of some very sour topics that only serve to fuel his most destructive tendencies, like for example, the idea that he's past his prime. That he's no longer a young man and that he's contending, with possibly other younger men, even though, he simultaneously doesn't believe anyone measures up to him and as such, he's both extremely egoistic and yet extremely hard on himself at the same time. Terry might also be haunted by the idea of mortality. Time being fleeting and beyond his control. His desires to have met beloved sooner, when he was younger, tough, sharper, and when he would've made every would-be admirer cover from beloved even faster. When he would've been more of a threat. More of an alpha, if that makes sense. Viewing everything from a tribalist and slightly primal point of view, he might feel the reason why so many men surround and try to act way too friendly with beloved in the first place is because they smell weakness. Weakness from him. That they see it in every grey hair. In every wrinkle. That they smell blood and that they're moving in on his turf. After all, lions do it to each other in the wild when the leader starts getting old and losing authority over his pride, his young and his females. People are no different. As such, it only has Terry taking extra precautions to tuck away the thing he loves most in this life and that's beloved. That, or ensuring the lives of these assholes are destroyed one by one. How about both? Both is good.

[bridgertonbabe]

how do the others meme era of the bridgerton brothers au meet their love match?

Kate is a model/dancer who stars in one of the band's music videos. While on set she overhears Anthony asking his brothers which of the dancers they plan on getting with and she is mightily unimpressed as he objectifies them, pointing out to his brothers which girl had the most cleavage on show or which one had the best bum. When Kate is introduced to Anthony as his love interest for the video she offers him nothing more than a forced smile in greeting and keeps her composure to not roll her eyes as he blatantly roves his gaze up and down her body. Ever the professional she makes it through the shoot without giving in to the urge to smack him across the face and by the end of the day she's more than ready to leave - but then Anthony catches her on her way out and with an arrogant grin asks her if she wants to go for a drink with him. Now off the clock, Kate tells him she'd rather stick pins in her eyes than willingly spend any time with him and she storms off, leaving him dumbfounded. If that was the last she thought she'd ever see of him; she thought wrong as somehow he seems to keep materialising at every single event and party she attends, and he always makes a beeline for her, desperate to win her over. At one party Colin chats with her, sharing his amusement that his brother is unable to get over the fact that she's the one girl who has ever rejected him, a fact which makes Kate feel very smug knowing just how much she has left Anthony rattled. Soon enough she actually enjoys seeing Anthony, purely because she loves the power she holds over him. It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that she's gradually becoming very fond of him, acknowledging just how charming he can be, and respectfully she can admit that he is a very handsome man - but it doesn't mean she likes him. Absolutely not... except, the day after Anthony's birthday she wakes up in his bed and in the cold hard light of day she can't believe she's ended up becoming yet another woman in a long line of his many conquests. Just as she's scrambling up to dash out, Anthony returns with breakfast in bed, much to Kate's surprise. She asks if he's always so generous with his one night stands and she watches his face falter before he quietly says he doesn't want this to be a one time thing. Kate then hesitantly enquires if by that he means he wants to be fuck buddies and once again she's perplexed when his face falls in response. He then states he had hoped that this would be the start of something special, of being a couple, of having someone to come home to everyday. Kate truly hadn't expected such a declaration and initially tries to reason that they wouldn't work in the slightest before Anthony blurts out that he's in love with her and implores her to give him a chance. She had never been in such a position before, had never experienced anyone fixing her with the most adoring of heart-eyes and truly she had never felt so loved and desired - and so, despite the reservations that lingered in her head, she decided to follow her heart and embrace the chance of a fulfilling relationship with Anthony; and she never looked back.

Meanwhile Penelope has known the Bridgertons for years, being best friends with Eloise to start with but over time develops a close bond with Colin. From a young age Penelope possessed a creative soul and loved to write stories and poems, and then one day when she was at the Bridgertons Colin got his guitar out and asked her if she wanted to write a song with him. Together they wrote a silly little song that entertained his younger siblings and from then on they continued writing songs together, and as they got older their song-writing ability flourished to the point that the songs they wrote were actually good, so good in fact that when Colin and his older brothers got a record deal several of the songs he wrote with Penelope made it onto the album. From then on Colin and Penelope collaborated to write a good chunk of the Bridgerton Brothers songs, including some of their biggest hits, and from then Penelope even had her hand in co-writing songs for other artists. Closer than ever before (even closer than her friendship with Eloise), the feelings Penelope had possessed for him since she had first met him only deepened and it was getting to a point that she began to believe he might feel the same way for her. He was so affectionate with her, always confided with her, never going a day without speaking to her, and telling her just how much he cares about her; she truly felt as though her feelings might finally be reciprocated. However, all her hopes were dashed the day she heard him declaring to his brothers that he'd never date her. Heartbroken, Penelope ghosted Colin, refusing to answer his calls and messages, and stopped writing for the band and instead provided her writing expertise to other artists. Colin was upset and desperate for her forgiveness but she refused to talk to him and as a result he lost all confidence in his own song-writing ability, feeling lost without Penelope's partnership and faith in him. Then one night Colin's phone rings and he is shocked but relieved to see Penelope's name flashing up. When he answers the call Penelope curtly tells him to leave her alone, sick to death of the countless messages he's sent her everyday since she stopped talking to him. Before she can hang up he desperately begs for her to hear him out and profusely apologises for saying something so hurtful, that he hates himself for upsetting her, and tells her just how much he misses her. With a sigh Penelope says she forgives him, that she knows he's not a bad person; but that she needs space. When he asks why they can't go back to the way things were Penelope can't hold it in any longer and tearfully confesses that she's in love with him and always has been and that it hurts too much to see or even talk to him, not that she now knows that he could never see her in the way she sees him. She requests that he gives her time and space and hopefully one day they might be able to just be friends once she's had time to heal. Colin is left in shock by his best friend's admission and doesn't quite know how to feel knowing he's broken the heart of the person he cares the most about. He's distracted by Benedict's own heartbreak, focusing on consoling his brother as he tries to wrap his head around the heartbreak he's caused Penelope. Once his brother finally works things out with Sophie, as well as seeing how loved up Kate and Anthony are, Colin can't stop thinking about Penelope and starts to imagine scenes of kissing her before he goes onstage just like Anthony does with Kate, or cuddling Penelope in his lap just how Benedict does with Sophie. It then hits him all at once; he's in love with Penelope and he can't wait a minute longer to tell her. He bangs on her door and when she opens it she's shocked to see him, and even more shocked when he grabs a hold of her and kisses her. That first kiss is enough to confirm everything between them, and after telling her he's in love with her they stumble their way into the bedroom to make up for lost time.

[ivanseledkin]

When Russian President Boris Yeltsin was infamously found unclothed outside the White House, it was a moment of unprecedented embarrassment. Very few individuals ever get the opportunity to visit the White House, and even fewer do so in their capacity as statesmen. Becoming a head of state is a monumental achievement in itself, and securing a meeting with the most powerful person on the planet adds a significant layer of significance. Shaking hands with the President of the United States in the splendid Oval Office, surrounded by cameras, creates an atmosphere of fanfare and scrutiny. For visiting leaders, the last thing on their agenda is to disrupt this elaborate procession. However, Boris Yeltsin, the President of the Russian Federation, had a different agenda when he visited the White House in 1994. During his stay, he veered significantly off his carefully planned schedule. Not only did he deviate from diplomatic norms, but he was also discovered outside the White House, inebriated and completely naked, attempting to hail a taxi with the intention of getting some "pizza." The relationship between the United States and Russia has been marked by diplomatic conflicts, sanctions, and political tensions. Every U.S. President since the Cold War has had their share of ups and downs with Russian leaders. Yet, when it came to Bill Clinton, the situation was nothing short of comical. It's intriguing to speculate on Clinton's reaction. Was he surprised, or could he empathize with the desire to unwind with a drink as a President? According to "The Clinton Tapes," a book by journalist Taylor Branch, Clinton didn't seem overly bothered by the incident. When asked how it turned out, Clinton casually replied, "Well, he got his pizza." However, what he mentioned next raised some concerns. On another evening, Yeltsin, in an intoxicated state, attempted a similar escapade, leaving Blair House (where visitors typically stay) and being mistaken for an intruder by White House guards. Russian guards had to intervene to prevent a potentially serious diplomatic incident. The stories surrounding Yeltsin's visit took increasingly bizarre turns. Clinton received a drunken call from Yeltsin, suggesting a secret meeting on a "submarine" or something similar. Whether this meeting actually occurred remains a mystery. Nonetheless, Clinton seemed to come to terms with Yeltsin's unconventional behavior. Initially, they appeared as close buddies, united in mischief and indulgence. At times, Clinton tried to downplay Yeltsin's drunkenness to prevent further embarrassment. During a press conference in 1994, Yeltsin, predictably intoxicated, insulted the press, calling them a "disaster." Clinton burst into laughter, but some suggested it was an attempt to cover up Yeltsin's condition. These two leaders seemed to get along well, treating Yeltsin's alcoholism as a light-hearted matter. Yeltsin's struggles with alcohol continued even after returning to Moscow. He was frequently seen stumbling and barely able to walk, with his guards focused on keeping him upright. On one occasion, he was filmed inappropriately touching female secretaries and even tossing one into water. Yeltsin's reputation as a "drunken czar" provided ample fodder for tabloid gossip. In 1999, Yeltsin was replaced by Vladimir Putin, an ex-KGB agent with a very different image. With Putin's leadership, U.S.-Russian relations entered a new era characterized by resurgence and growing tensions, in stark contrast to the late-night pizza and vodka episodes of the 1990s. In summary, Boris Yeltsin's White House escapades provided plenty of amusing train-wrecks in the diplomatic world, but they were a far cry from the more serious and strained relations that followed his departure from office. Uncle Joe, referring to Putin, might bring a different set of diplomatic challenges, but it's unlikely to involve drunken phone calls or late-night escapades.

[illumiera]

For the ask game, take 🪞 and 👀 for Ellie, and ✋ and 🪞 for Miraak! I love that question about self-image! 😍😍

thank you so much for the ask! I hope you're prepared for an essay... 💖

from this ask game!

Elentari:

🪞 How does your OC perceive themself? Do they believe themself to be attractive, unattractive, or average? Does their view of themself affect their self-esteem, or are they unbothered by their physical appearance? (If your OC does have things they’re confident or insecure about, what are they?)

Ellie grew up in Daggerfall's noble circles, where physical beauty was upheld as the most desirable quality for a young lady to possess, but her parents took great care to remind their daughters that there were far more important things for a person to be than attractive. as a result, she's always had very healthy self-esteem! she's aware that she's what would be considered beautiful by Breton standards, but she generally pays no mind to it. she likes to make herself feel pretty with her relaxing beauty rituals, fine gowns, jewellery, and flowers in her hair, but it doesn't particularly matter to her whether someone thinks she is or not... unless that someone were a certain someone, and then I think the knowledge that they find her stunning beyond words would make her go so pink she'd be luminous. 🥰

👀 What is the first physical feature people notice when they see your OC? Why?

the first thing anyone will notice about Ellie is just how small she is, both in height and in build! you hear the songs composed in honour of the Last Dragonborn, the slayer of the World-Eater... and then you meet her in person and she's a slip of a woman not quite five feet tall. at this point in her journey, she's grown used to (and even amused by) the double-takes and the doubt that flashes in peoples' eyes, but she won't deny how strange it was to look upon Alduin's Wall for the first time, see the carving made to represent her, and know how much she differed in every conceivable way.

Miraak:

✋ Are your OC’s hands smooth, rough, or average? Why? How do they keep their nails? Do they bite them, paint them, neatly trim them, et cetera?

contrary to what his strong physique and skill in battle would suggest, Miraak has very soft, smooth hands only faintly callused between the fingers—though this wasn't always the case. he was once no stranger to manual labour, both during his early life and after being taken by the dragon cult as a boy (I have much more to say about his life prior to the priesthood in i fear no fate!), and only his growing skill with Restoration magic allowed him to mend the cracks and cuts that would often form on his palms. his time in Apocrypha has corrupted what were once neat nails tipping long, slender fingers—lute-player's fingers—into claws that shine like spilled ink, and while they and the staining that reaches his knuckles might appear black at first, it's actually a mixture of dark blues, purples, greens, and greys.

🪞: oh, boy, these days Miraak's self-image is not great. as a dragon priest, it would have been forbidden for anyone save the dov and other priests to look upon his face, but he still took good care of his appearance even if no one (except for, say, a Last Dragonborn who could cross through the many eras between them so that they could meet in their dreams) could see it. once, he prided himself on his long golden hair braided according to Atmoran tradition, his strength in physical and magical combat, and the powerful presence of his dragon soul... and now when he looks at himself, all he sees is what Apocrypha has done to him. he doesn't quite understand it, how Ellie can look at him as though she cares nothing for the marks of Daedric corruption, but he's beyond touched by it all the same. you could say that's when he truly fell for her for the second time, even without remembering her: when she saw his hand and, though he was half expecting her to back away, she still held it gently within hers. 🥲

[shamelesspoetrystarfish]

Walnut Creek, California Left Coast Press

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[tododeku-or-bust]

Part II

Now let’s transition to the actual kink (this might play into your writing, actually): exhibitionism

Achilles has a big ego. Patroclus has a lot to brag about too (son of a titan), but he could be described as more reserved/mature. Actually, I can see Iliad Patroclus having a cool confidence and swagger as he goes about his day in Troy. So would our fav couple enjoy being loud, almost openly smug about the good sex they’re having? Would they go for semi-public spots or scenarios where they are at risk of being caught? And how would they react to being caught? Do either of them enjoy putting on a show (to translate, in modern times this would be done via sexting w/pics or video)?

I think Achilles likes being loud and engaging in PDA and also getting caught. It’s his way to brag about how hot he is and to mark his territory. I think Patroclus appreciates vocal Achilles, and he just goes with everything else to keep Achilles amused (a sweet soft dom and impulse control).

Thinking about your possessive ask, I think Patroclus does have a strong sense of “intimacy” possessiveness. In TSOA he does say “my Achilles.” But he’s not exactly upset by the presence of women. The king that he is he’s able to recognize non-consent, BUT I think he’s also able to recognize the lack of an emotional component (aka no emotional cheating). That being said, I’m inclined to think Patroclus is more inclined to be private when it comes to truly intimate/deep moments. Quickies and scenes are one thing, but declarations of deep devotion are another.

I’m split on them being into exhibitionism. Your thoughts?

Turns out i had more time than i thought 🤣 I'm mainly answering these as Iliad/TSoA perspective.

The son of a titan bit is new to me! I must have missed that line in the story. That's pretty awesome actually. It also backs up some of my HCs in the Fame AU. I'll have to use that in quote in my upcoming chapter.

I mean, trailing back to the last ask, i think all of that semi-public, arrogance stuff is gonna be our favorite Hubris boy. I don't think Patroclus would be ashamed or anything like that, but he's not gonna go around bragging. He doesn't have to. Now if someone were to ever challenge him, I'm sure he could pull the "I'm both standing by and fucking your strongest warrior so mind yourself" line if pushed. I did plan on getting into that in my writing, yes. So don't steal it 😂

I'm sure, since they can't necessarily talk about it out loud, Achilles would be willing to wear the marks proudly as a sort of "y'all know what it is". And yes, Patroclus will go along with it 🤣 he can't stop him anyway. I don't think they'd be ashamed if caught, but i don't think they'd be that risky outside of their tent or wherever they're alone. Essentially, if you enter their space you're liable, but unless they think they're alone, i don't think they'd be in the camp canoodling lmao. Refer to the cultural thing in the first ask.

I can agree with him liking vocal Achilles- something quietly ego stroking about being the chosen one in that scenario, being able to please so well and have the most powerful guy in camp under you 🤣 i can also agree on the intimacy possessiveness, yeah. I will say, i do characterize that differently when I'm writing/thinking canon era vs modern AUs. Modern AUs, Pat is not sharing. Period. I feel like cheating is cheating, so if they weren't in an agreed, consensual polyamory or threesome situation (which I'm not remotely interested by, but if other people are, that's cool!), it's disloyalty. Iliad wise, it was expected that they would take women. Bi kings 🤷🏾‍♀️ that don't mean they loved them lmao. Man's didn't tear a river of blood through an army for Briseis, Diomede or Iphis 🤣

I agree on the privacy desire; overall i don't think exhibition is for them, no. But you're allowed to! It's your fantasy lol.

I hope i answered every question, it's still early lol

[wornoutmouse]

Fun fact: demon slayer starts in 1912 and ends in 1927(or at least that's when the Tashio era ends). Using that math Tanjiro (as long as he kept his health good) would very well be alive today at the ripe age of like 78 if my math is correct since he started as 13 in the series. (My math probably wrong asf)

Power imbalance, power bottom reader, knife play,  blood but not blood play...

He hated you.

Your very being irked him more than anything he'd ever experienced in all his centuries of living. You were clumsy, boisterous, and played that arrogant music all throughout your home while walking around half naked. Well in Muzan's opinion you were half naked, he couldn't even begin to describe his disbelief at the trend of exposing skin. 

It didn't help that you had that insignificant filth running through your veins. At first he was unsure, after all this was a completely different country than Japan, not to mention your darker skin and coiled hair. But no, he could smell and recognise the Kamado blood running through your veins just as strongly as it had run through all your ancestors. 

Completely undiluted. 

At the very beginning when you first moved in, you  came to his home. Knocking aggressively on his front door already getting off to the wrong start. When he opened it, you slipped past him and walked into his living room barely even saying hello as you put poorly decorated sugar cookies on his obsidian coffee table. "This is a nice place you got here Mj." 

Muzan's eyes twitched, that joke had long since gotten old since he moved to America. 

Now that you were closer he could definitely smell, the century old stench of rivaling bloodlust simmered just below your onyx skin. At any moment he expected you to attack him in some way or form. "Anyways I'm here to say hello neighbor, my name is Y/n and I'm your new best friend!"

Your happy attitude also agitated him to no end. Even though the knowledge of demons had dwindled down to only a few select families, even basic humans were wary of him as their baser instincts made them aware of his dangerous origins. This fact had long since forced Muzan to only prey on the elderly to survive. You had stayed a bit longer babbling about some nonsense that Muzan never acknowledged as he watched you from a good distance.

"You know you really got to add more to your wardrobe than 1963 suits." You walked from the back of his home, an area that he didn't even notice you wandered to. Finally getting bored, you open his door bidding your farewells. 

Just before leaving you stop and with a cheeky grin say, "If you ever need anything just come on over. We Kamado's are known for our kindness." 

Since then he'd been on edge around you. The point of relocating was for him to keep a low profile but now it seems he'd have to come face to face with an old nemesis reborn. 

Muzan snapped out of his thoughts with a flinch as he pierced his hand with his nail. He watches the dark blood well up from the wound and drip down his wrist. In the end this world had long since lost its hostility dwindling the average human incapable of basic combat. Giving you were no doubt a great descendant, Muzan failed to see you as a true threat.  

But one can never be too sure

🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢

You heard a knock on your door, soft and hesitant. "I don't think I'm expecting company." You checked your watch and peered out of a nearby window. It was at least 8 at night, you were braless wearing sweats with a red T-Shirt and on your way to bed.  In the back of your mind you visualize your two grand-uncles Inosuke and Zenitsu coming over to make you spectate their fights. For two old dudes they still had enough strength in them to do hip breaking nonsense.

You open the door shocked to see your next door neighbor standing before you. For once he wasn't wearing a suit that cost more than your house. His attire was still expensively dressed but in a more casual sense, that being a black dress shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled up displaying his pale skin. "Can I come in?" A dazzling smile you had never seen before practically blinds you as he walks past you into your home.

When Muzan walks in his eyes immediately dart to the clear as day Nichirin Blade sword displayed recklessly on your living room wall above your couch. "You like it?" A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, "Got it from my grandpa, he says it's really special but I feel like he's exaggerating. You know how old people are." Muzan shakes out of his stupor. "I don't quite understand what you mean by that, however I do know that it's much more wise to listen to your elders than ignoring…..It could save your life."

Muzan replicates you and puts a hand on your shoulder gently squeezing. This was it, he'd go in for the kill and it would be over, the amount of blood he'd pump into you would be enough to watch you meet a satisfying end of combustion completely untraceable if the police were to get involved. How he wishes he'd be there when your poor grandfather walks along your remains splattered on every surface in your living room. Unable to do a thing as he's finally in his last stretch of life. 

The beauty.

Muzan's finger only twitches in the slightest before pain sparks from his own neck. "The thought of you coming into my own home unprovoked and at night no less, was the most obvious sign one could ask more." You had his hand gripped so tight your veins popped while your other hand held a small pocket knife that burned  brighter than any Nichirin sword he'd ever encountered. He didn't understand, he was quick enough to kill even the best of the ancient Hiroshima. So how did a little foreign girl like you get the upper hand?

It was embarrassing and almost laughable if any of his pillars were alive to tell the tale.

You press the blade harder before bringing your other hand to caress Muzan's cheek,  "Did you think I'd be just an ignorant descendant of an infamous hero?" You clicked your teeth disappointingly. "How naive, you've really become lazy after all these millennia huh?" You walk forward, pushing Muzan back with seductive strength. He allows you to push him into your couch,  I say allow because at any time he could have stopped you.  

Muzan is most definitely not holding me at gunpoint right now. 

The knife never wavers even as you climb into Muzan's lap, pressing it even closer against his jugular. "You do know getting beheaded will not kill me, and I doubt this petty little kitchen knife will get the job done in the first place." Your lips draw into a smirk and you press the knife closer as you trail it down his chest, "That may be true but it's gonna take one hell of a time for you to grow back." Your hand jerks down, popping his shirt buttons open.

Muzan watches with interest, your eyes light up as more skin becomes exposed. The tones of your dark skin contrast strikingly as you caress his pectoral with the tips of your fingers. "For a 1,000 year old grandpa you look decent." Still threatening his life with your blade, you kiss him. It's deep and carnal. Your lustful desires being made known as you grind in his lap. The flesh of your ass snuggly hotdogs the forming outline of his cock. "I've always wanted to be with a demon. You've had to of become a real freak after living this long!"

When you pull away Muzan's thin lips are pink and a bit swollen. He is out of breath despite needing none, "You have a lot of nerve for a mere human." With your free hand you loosen the belt of his slacks, only standing to pull them off, pleased when Muzan voluntarily raises his hips to aid you. 

Don't get him wrong, he was still planning on killing you and ending your wretched bloodline once and for all, he just needed his mind to clear itself. Your scent, your confidence, strung him along like a puppet. His hands grip onto your ass cheeks like a lifeline. Molding them between his fingers, even giving them a shake through your sweats. His nails elongate and puncture the thick fabric as if it was nothing more than a spider web. 

Your sweats are tugged off completely leaving your lower half nude. Muzan moves his hands to hold your ass again but your blade politely makes itself known. You are out of breath and clearly flustered. "Watch yourself, demon, I'm the one calling the shots, don't forget that." Muzan bites his tongue with sharp glare. He raises his hands in surrender, "Of course." 

Muzan can feel your wetness against his leg and it's driving him insane. "Hey…" red eyes refocus on yours, "You ain't got any diseases do you? And you can't get me pregnant right?" Muzan smirks hands enclosing around your ass despite your protest. "I can, however it will cost a lot more than doing it once." The odds didn't seem in your favor but you were in no position to stand down and grab a condom and Muzan knew it.

You curve the blade towards his chin, "If you are lying and give me some ancient unknown disease or I find out you have superman sperm, I will kill you." Muzan links his lips, "Wasn't that the plan from the beginning or have you had a moment of level headedness?" Your wrist is quick and precise, cutting a thin slash along his jawline., not enough to scar and it barely even bled, but the threat was clear.

You grab Muzan's dick and use your thumb to attack the underside with fast strokes. Said man doesn't react outwardly, the only sign being his eyelids lowering by a fraction. "Were you always this well endowed or did you adjust this part too?" Muzan was not amused by your insinuation. Deciding to once again display the true power imbalance this situation had, he loops his arms underneath your large thighs and lifts you just enough to thrust his cock against your hole. 

From there he let's go, making you plop down on his length, making you yelp and allowing him to lean back with a relaxed sigh. You were so warm and tight. Now even though I explained what had happened with great detail,  keep in mind that in reality it all happened within a fraction of a second. 

Your large and in charge persona was cracking.  You gripped Muzan's sides tightly as your pussy spasmed around his girth. "F-Fuck it's too….." you trail off not wanting to give Muzan the credit he was truly due. 

It takes a few moments for you to get your bearings all the while Muzan and his dangerous jaw swayed in the crevice of your neck. A viper playing with its prey. The blade is back against his neck once again making his cock twitch. If he were human this would be a dangerous feat.  Your grip never slacked nor lessened against his neck, slicing into a growing wound that dropped dark blood down his chest and to his abdomen. 

His dick stretched your pussy and made it weap on each downstroke. Muzan's hands grip onto the cheeks of your ass with gritted teeth.  Your insides gripped him ever so slightly.  Sucking him back in as if he belonged there.  He felt used and it felt good.  His black ringlets stuck to his face from sweat and his red eyes grew in intensity. 

He couldn't see much of your body, hell he could barely even touch. In the back of his mind humorous thoughts such as how he knew Tanjiro would lose his sanity if he knew his granddaughter was being bedded by the man he despised. But the more you bounced, the more you squeezed, the deeper you cut into his neck proved that you were truly the one in charge. 

"Oh God you're so deep!" Your deep almond eyes shut themselves with pleasure. Muzan could feel your legs shaking with exertion at the same rhythm your pussy twitched. His balls felt tight after having no action in over a dozen years. "F-Faster." He has no care for your blade, only wanting to cum and feel the sweet ecstasy he knew your creamed pussy would provide. "Come on human, go faster." Muzan locks lips with you, gaze hardened and intent on proving some sort of point.

Tossing the knife you wrap your arms around his neck pulling his head closer. Red eyes target brown ones as his hands take a stronger grip on your ass. He uses his strength to bounce you. The sound of his balls slapping against the curve of your ass is just as disgusting as it is sexy. Your nipples rub against his through your tank-top making you both moan. The feeling blood stains your shirt making you shiver from the cool wetness

The couch you rest on bangs against the wall behind you the faster you both go. Muzan's feet are planted firmly in the ground, his fangs further elongated. He looks feral and it is in this moment where you get a glimpse of the horror many people felt when he took their lives. "Focus little Kamado, you wouldn't want to disappoint me now would you?" 

Muzan's hips meet yours, spreading the tempo. Your juices coat his lap before finally you tense up completely into a cramp inducing stance as Muzan impaled you on his cock one last time. "Ahh.." Muzan empties himself within you with a relieved sigh. 

Maybe the Kamado bloodline could go on.

[yuujism]

a curse like you (ryōmen sukuna x reader)

REQUEST:  Hello! I really love ur sukuna fics and i was wondering if i can request a yuuji/sukuna x fem reader where mc is a curse that sukuna knew from many years ago?? Can be fluff, smut or angst. Up to you 😁 thank you so much!! 🤗

| PAIRINGS:  ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

| WARNINGS: little suggestive but nothing bad, grammar errors

| WORD COUNT: 1,653

A/N: i focused this more on sukuna idk  if that’s ok with you !! if not you can send me a message or reqeust and tell me what did you expect so i can change it if i can😭!! anyway i like yearning and ex lovers to lovers prompts so uhh yea 😳 might even write this better with yuuji being more involved and more things happening lmfaosh !! i hope you enjoy!!  ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ

Sukuna was bored out of his mind.

These situations were becoming more recurrent now that the brat that called himself his vessel started becoming stronger and getting the hang of the use of cursed energy.

He could hear everything that happened during the fight: the swearing, the sound of flesh splitting open, blood splashing and some motivational speech every now and then.

This was all a routine for the King of Curses now.

When he felt the light in his flesh for the first time in thousands of years, he swore he would never feel something like that again. It wasn’t anything that deemed itself meaningful, but after centuries of not having contact with anything at all, that moment felt like pure ectasis. He didn’t really count with having to spend most of the time inside of a brat after that.

It was all boring now. Boring, boring, boring. 

“Sorcerers come pretty green now, don’t they?” 

Oh? 

He lifted his head way too quickly, almost giving himself whiplash even if it was impossible. 

That voice. Sukuna knew that voice well. Very well if he said so himself. 

This was the voice that would call him a King in a mocking tone, as if it was calling him the King of idiots instead of the King of Curses. The same voice that refused to let out the sound of his name, too proud and stuck up but whenever they were alone, feeling each other, it would slip out every now and then. A voice that would let out the sweetest pleads and moans whenever he would let his hands travel around that body. And it became the last thing he heard before he was cut into pieces and retained by sorcerers for decades, sinking into the darkness. 

And now, the owner of the voice, who he thought was dead, was standing there, in front of his vessel, with the biggest smirk on her face.

Y/N. The proclaimed queen of curses.

And Sukuna’s... ex.

Sukuna felt Itadori freeze in place, looking directly at you with fear filling his body. The curse couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. Even after thousands of years, your power was way too intimidating and immaculate Sorcerers of the old age would even avoid saying Y/N’s name in fear of summoning her, knowing damn well she wouldn’t hesitate to kill them for making bad use of her title. 

They could feel it. They knew you weren’t just a cursed spirit. You could talk and appeared out of nowhere without even making your presence known. You were probably at the same level as Sukuna. Or Sukuna was at the same level as you.

He really thought you were killed after he was captured, only remembering your revengeful words towards the sorcerers who killed your lover. After that, and for obvious reasons, he never heard of you. Not even in this new era where sorcerers spawned one after the other, never mentioning your name or any hint that lead to your survival. So to see you in front of him, safe and sound and impactful as ever, Sukuna felt relief.

Y/N’s eyes landed on Yuji’s restless ones, as if she was staring at his soul. Which, basically, she did. Her gaze passed all the way through his barrier and soul, finally reaching what she was looking for: Sukuna’s own soul and eyes.

“Damn, King, is that you?” in a blink of an eye, you were right before Itadori’s face, too quick for him to even react and even too scared. “Shit, you’re pretty fucked now, huh? All trapped inside a bag of human flesh.”

Before the girl with the hammer could strike your body after snapping out of her trance, you limited yourself to press a finger in the sorcerer’s forehead, smiling almost sweetly before sending her body flying back with extreme force against the furthest wall of the space, knocking her out. 

“K-Kugisa- Hngh!” Itadori’s words were interrupted by a hand wrapping around his neck, slightly lifting him from the ground as he struggled to move, too weak from the constant fighting with all the cursed spirits that came in a flood. 

“Now, now,” Your voice was too calm, almost tired, getting closer to Yuuji’s face “Why don’t you switch with the oh-so-mighty King of curses? Too scared to come out, huh, King?” 

Your tone ticked Sukuna in more than one way. You were still the same annoying bitch as before. 

If you wanna live you better switch with me, you damn brat.

“Like hell I would switch with you! You’re gonna kill us!”

“Oh, so you can talk with him within yourself?” You let out an amused snort, your grip getting tighter. “Ridiculous!”

Foolish human, she will kill you. Switch with me.

Even if his vessel dying didn’t mean anything to Sukuna, he knew he would never get the chance to meet you again, probably for another thousand years, and these sorcerers were too invested in vanishing him from the face of the earth. 

When Yuuji was about pass out, eyes half closing and his windpipe being pressed roughly, you noticed the way his skin started developing black marks in his face and along his body. You smiled widely when the small scars under the sorcerer’s eyes opened to reveal a red colour looking straight at you, the whole features of this guy in front of you changing to reveal what you were looking forward too.

Sukuna’s hand wrapped around your wrist, claws digging into your flesh as you both stared at each other with a mix of emotions: hatred, anger, amusement. And something more.

“Move.”

You dropped him, backing up a bit as he fixed the hoodie his vessel was wearing, glaring at the queen of curses. You didn’t change at all. If Sukuna had to be honest, you were as hot tempered and attractive as before. He could perfectly remember the way your body reacted whenever he touched the spots that drove you crazy A sly smirk appeared on his face as he noticed the same movement of fingers when you were restless, and he knew it was because of him.

“Nervous, Y/N?” Sukuna chuckled, walking to you to circle around your frame, looking up and down your body. “You know I don’t bite, baby. Unless you ask me to, that is.”

You turned around to look at him behind you, incredulous.

“Hah?” Your head fell back, letting out a louder than usual laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, King. I’m just worried I’ll easily step on you while you’re in this vessel of yours.” Your hand started glowing with your cursed energy, raising an eyebrow at the way his indifferent expression didn’t flinch. “And even more now since you get dominated so easily.”

Once again, something in Sukuna ticked. If there was something he hated more than being looked down upon, it’d be the fact of not being in control of any situation. He never once admitted it, but your comments really got to him. He wanted to be praised and adored by you, queen who would never adore anyone but herself. This just made him even more infatuated by you. Perhaps even after all this time, he could make you say his name in a broken voice.

“You see, you shouldn’t be talking to me like that.” Your smile went away when a hand reached one of your cheeks, caressing it with such care you almost gagged. However, you couldn’t help the way your heart started beating faster. “Or do you think I don’t remember the way I made you submit to me?”

This time, it was you who twitched with anger. Sukuna’s hand grabbed your chin, his eyes falling on those delicious lips that committed the most sinful of acts and spat out the dirtiest of words. He was getting excited already, the fire within him starting to awaken after a long time.

When his face started getting closer to yours, you spat on him, the liquid landing on his cheek and laughing at his dumbfounded reaction after such action.

“A half-assed curse like you shouldn’t be talking to ME like that.” You snarled back, your arm swinging to attack the man in front of you. You almost chanted victory when your fist perfectly landed on the side of his face, making his head to turn to the side.

But when Sukuna turned to look back at you still with your fist against him, you gulped. There was no reaction, no injury that showed he was at least a little faced by the sudden attack.

This was it.

“Well, fuck.” You almost laughed again, expecting the worst to come when his eyes flashed with something dark, grabbing you by both sides of your head. All that time surviving for nothing. Keeping yourself hidden from every single sorcerer that walked the earth and now you were going to get killed by your ex-lover.

But instead of receiving the coup de grâce, Sukuna’s lips smashed against yours in a hungry manner, groaning against your mouth as your hands flew to scratch his arms in surprise, eyes open wide before the movement of his lips and strong hand in the back of your neck made you close them, not being able to fight back your own desires.

Sukuna missed this. Honestly, he missed any kind of physical touch but the fact it was with you again, made him realise it would always be you.

He was as calm as the silence surrounding you now, only the sounds of your heavy breathing filling your flushed ears. You were burning up, face red and glassy eyes. Sukuna smiled before slightly pulling your hair, head slightly falling back and taking advantage of this to place the softest of kisses in your neck. You let out a rather pathetic moan and he deeply chuckled.

“And a curse like you should know who is in charge here.”

[hobidreams]

november 1868.

but you’ve always been his, haven’t you?

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst words: 2.8k contains: historical au, mentions of death, unhealthy relationship dynamics (but era-appropriate; you know how it goes), explicit sexual content, longing.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble eight. start from the beginning?

If there is one inevitability in life, it is that time goes on.

You, like everyone else under King Yoongi’s reign, simply do your best to survive with your head intact. With the ground now mostly frozen over with ice, you have no reason to visit the gardens, and honestly, it becomes less of a loss by the day. You have your hands full with work; the worsening winter always means a higher possibility of catching an illness for the court ladies, and so you are left with little time to think of the king. Willful ignorance is a powerful defense mechanism when even the mere mention of him brings a frown to your lips and a lingering pressure in your chest.

But it is impossible not to think of him today, on the 11th of November. What would have been Queen Jeonghui’s birthday, but is instead a day of mourning.

All official business has more or less halted for the day. The entire palace is somber, the occupants moving through familiar routines feeling numb from more than just the cold. You are among their number, having finished all the work that could distract you while the sun set. Now, you wander in the pitch dark, through the open corridor towards your quarters with heaviness in every step.

You miss her laugh. The queen had always treated you like one of her own, asking after your interests, new discoveries, and health even while her own dwindled. You miss hearing the stories of her surprisingly rambunctious life before she came to court. You miss the brightness in her voice when she spoke of the hopes she had for the future of the kingdom, and for her precious Yoongi. You blink away a tear as your journey comes to its end.

In your small but private room, you begin to undo the straps of your hanbok with the relieving sense that this day is almost over. Stripped to your undergarments, you’re eager to crawl beneath the warm blankets and let blissful sleep take you into tomorrow as soon as your eyes shut.

Except sleep is not easily persuaded to come tonight, as you soon learn.

Even when you force your body to stay still as long as possible, even when you try to block out all thought and simply imagine blankness before you, you remain no closer to dreams, forcibly stuck in this bleak reality. That’s when your exhausted mind begins to wander to places most dangerous, even though you already vowed to stay far, far away.

You wonder whether the king is alone in his grief tonight. Has he eaten properly, or has he completely shut himself away? Does he even have enough heart left to mourn from all you’ve witnessed these past months?

(This last thought is what makes you ache the most, despite yourself.)

Then a quiet voice mutters your name from outside.

You blink and look up, uncertain whether it was just the wind. Who would it be at this late hour anyway? Who would be so bold as to call your name and not your title? But then the sound comes again, louder this time with some impatience in the syllables, and you realize exactly whose voice it must be.

Scrambling to your feet with the chill of losing the blanket sweeping over you, you have a split second to decide between keeping him waiting and having a proper appearance. You land somewhere in the middle, pulling on a loose, long jeogori that was once your mother’s before throwing the door wide open before you can think it through.

Damn all the odds.

It really is him.

In the moonlight, his hair seems almost ethereal with the way most of it cascades loosely around his shoulders. It’s fine, pale gold, spilling across the crimson dye of the royal robes that have been left slacker than is normally allowed in public company. There’s still a hardness in those midnight eyes, a set obstinacy in lips twisted down for a scowl that seems all too inherent to him now.

“Jeonha,” you exhale, more breath than sound.

How are you meant to receive him after all that has happened?

Wordlessly, he moves forward. You flatten yourself against the wall to allow him entry into your tiny home, your world without question, just like you always have. His sleeves brush past you as he walks and the incredibly subtle scent of plum blossoms begins to swirl around the air, so familiar it brings a hot sting to your eyes in an instant.

“Is that—”

“Shut the door.” His voice is biting, forcing you to drop the question.

You have little choice in the matter. When you turn back to face him, this room feels about three times smaller with the imposing aura that emanates from him. He has never felt more like a king to you than now, staring at you down his nose like he holds your life in his palm. At this distance, you fear he can hear the palpitations of your treacherous heart.

“Um.” You involuntarily wrap your hands around your stomach, trying to calm the jitters. “…How may I help you, jeonha?”

His lips curl in a smirk, but there is no real humor in it. “You must know the only thing a man and woman can do alone at night?”

Surprise is so blatant on your face that it amuses him; the smirk grows wider but remains empty still.

“You— You wish to do that?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you or did you not say to come if I had anything I required?”

He remembered. He knew it was you. A part of you thaws, just an inch.

“Still— Must… Must it be tonight?” Of all nights.

“It has to be.”

You swallow, dry. All you know of the act are the medical descriptions and consequences of such copulation as written out in your studied texts. To think of such a thing occurring in real life— to even consider it with the king! It was beyond your wildest thoughts, even when you used to let your childhood fantasies soar. But even more ludicrous than that, for him to consider being with you, a mere uinyeo when all the ministers routinely brought their high-born daughters to court in hopes of tempting him… “W-What of the court ladies, the ones waiting to be made concubine…?”

At your last word, he scowls like a bolt of lightning, gone before you can confirm that it was there at all. “I see.” He shifts, as if already prepared to leave. “I should have gone to them first.”

Your stomach drops.

The prospect of a random woman wrapping herself around him in seduction, holding him closer than he’s ever been to you… You wince. The mere thought of how he might fit against her, leave a part of himself inside her body, strikes envy deep into your mind. Especially when you consider all that could follow such an intimate act.

You know it’s not your place to be so concerned; it never has been, but damn it. Here he is in front of you, and not them. That has to mean something.

“No!” You blurt out, and watch his face darken with satisfaction. That in itself makes you fiercely aware of how much he has changed but still, you say, “no. Don’t… don’t go.”

In a stroke of boldness, you slip the jacket from your shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

“Good girl.”

It all happens so quickly.

Grasping your arm, he brings you to him with one strong tug. Invades your space with his heat. You’ve never been this physically close before but you are given no time to savor it. Your eyes search his for a hapless second before he forces his gaze away with a light whip of his hair. For a second, you think like he might kiss you, but that particular touch never comes.

“Bed.” The air around the word makes it sound like he’s rushing as he pulls you both towards the mussed bedspread, but of course it’s not that. It’s almost laughable, the thought that he would want so badly to claim you as his. It’s more likely that he wants any warm body beneath him, and you happened to be the most convenient.

As he pushes you to the floor, as he begins to strip you of your undergarments, your mind struggles to set aside your worries and the rest of the world with it to focus on the feeling of his unobstructed fingers on the skin he reveals with each passing second. For a moment, it works. For a moment, all you know is the heat of his desire as he throws aside most of your coverings, then discards his own as if they were nothing more than cleaning rags. Staring at his bare body for the first time, you take in all the lean muscle that make up his chest, the paleness of his skin that brings to mind the word delicate. It’s at complete odds with the ugliness that’s surrounded him for so long and really, you don’t know what to believe anymore as he rakes his eyes over you too.

You’re shivering. Keenly aware of your nakedness, made even more stark when your king practically fixes you to the floor with his presence alone. He must know this is all new to you, that he’s the only one able to put you in this position even after everything he’s done. But will that afford you the tenderness you so crave? Your pulse thunders in your ears as you await the answer.

“Turn over. On your hands and knees.”

Your breath hitches.

He doesn’t even want to look at your face.

You choke back the emotion that yearns to spill over, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing exactly how he affects you when he doesn’t allow you the same luxury. You’re stronger than this, even though your fears have just been confirmed. That this, his broad hand harshly squeezing your ass, is the only reason he broke through the thick wall of silence between you. That he treats you just like any other woman, not one he’s known all his life.

What does it say about you that you’re still willing to give him everything?

His other hand trails down your back as if lightly scratching an invisible character there. Then, when he reaches for your sokgot, the last bit of cloth left to you, it truly hits you that there will be no going back from this. Not after he physically carves himself into your memory. It makes you unthinkingly tense up; in turn, the hands against you stutter to a pause.

The silence feels thick, smothering. Then—

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

You say it before you can decide whether it’s the truth or merely what you wish would be the truth.

“Hm.”

He leaves you wondering if that was the answer he wanted and resumes, undoing the ties, pulling away the layer that wants to cling to the slight wetness between your thighs. Evidently not one for wasting time, and why would he linger when he just wants an easy release anyway, he runs the tip of his thumb down your slit before pushing eagerly into your heat. The lewd moan that you emit is a noise you’ve never made before, and it makes your face burn with shyness.

You’ve touched yourself like this perhaps three times ever, more out of medical curiosity than anything. You didn’t quite see a point in it when it just left you feeling lonely once the high faded. But under your king’s control, it feels maddeningly new. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what he’s going to do next, like when he suddenly pushes in a second finger and you feel the spike of pain work its way through your limbs before giving way to the next wave of pressure. It’s just almost too much to take, his insistent kneading against your dripping walls.

“Your cunt is so fucking tight. Just for me? Only take my fingers like this?” He feeds you another finger when you nod, huffing a smirk at your whine. The unfamiliar words are as harsh as his hands. You’ve never heard him like this, so rough and cocksure, practically an utter stranger. But a stranger could never bring out such overwhelming emotions in your chest, your poor, confined heart.

Your legs are soon shaking with the strain of holding up your weight when pleasure and pain war so intensely in your body; but you don’t dare collapse in surrender, even though this has always been a losing battle. Not even when he rears back, replacing his cream-slick hand with what you think is the blunt head of his cock. He whets it along your folds and it feels so much thicker, intimidating like the rest of him. But you want it. You realize then just how much you want it, even if this is all you’ll have of him when it’s over.

He leans over you, hot breath whisking across your back, a palm on your hip. “I’m your first.” It sounds like a boast. “No one else.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No one else.”

And he takes his first stroke.

Hisses when he feels you squeeze around him, and you wonder if this is his first time too. Then you have to force yourself to stop thinking about that altogether, afraid that the real answer might hurt more than this: the ache of being spread apart with every brutal, solid inch, filled too quickly by a man who doesn’t seem like he could take things slow even if he wanted to. He keeps shoving forward, biting down every surfacing grunt as his nails dig into your waist and it hurts. It hurts so much but you grit your teeth, refusing to back down because you need him to know that you can take this. Even when your mouth feels drier with every yelp, every moan, you tell yourself it’ll be easier the next time he wants to have his way with you. Right now, that seems better than not feeling him at all.

“This cunt,” he finally growls when he bottoms out, for once sounding so unbridled that goosebumps speed down your weakening arms. But you find yourself liking the sound, craving it even as he pauses to catch his breath.

The first few thrusts are slightly awkward. Just his hips bumping against your ass as he tries to find his footing. It doesn’t take long until he picks up a rhythm. Starts to slam into you, jolting you forward. Soreness starts to grow exponentially with a foreign feeling you think might just be pleasure spreading throughout all of you. You concentrate on that in lieu of your knees forced repeatedly against the hardness of the wooden floor, the bedding too thin to provide any real comfort.

“Jeonha,” you gasp on a particularly deep thrust, and he seems to like that. Strokes faster in response (or perhaps reward). You don’t even register that you’re half-smiling when he does, having learned something about him that is privy to only the two of you.

On top of that, he can’t seem to stop touching you. It goes beyond the way he fucks into you, more into how he can’t stop exploring the expanse of your back with his nails or with his mouth, sucking stinging marks into your body. It’s as if he needs to have as much skin contact with you as he will allow himself, needs to feel your warmth just as much as you crave his. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, but you try again with a hoarse, “jeonha.” He gives it to you harder, rousing, stoking that dangerous tension.

You don’t even notice his mouth beside your ear until— “Mine.”

He claims you, and something inside you melts. Not a particularly powerful feeling but a sea change nonetheless, a weak peak that ripples out, thrums through you both. He allows you to submit to the sensation for a few scarce seconds before he tears himself away, leaving you to pulse around nothing, whimpering from the emptiness. You barely recognize the sound of skin on skin friction but suddenly, heat splatters across your back, white painting itself over your skin as he gives one, elongated exhale and it’s over.

The king backs up, shifts away. Lets any lingering warmth between you dissipate into the ice air of winter, but this time he holds your gaze with a certain firmness, as if trying to pluck out the slivers of truth in your expression. In his eyes, the thin scar ever carved down the right, you find only more depths. Fathomless, endless depths – dark and painful still.

[odissey061]

Fandom: Bungo stray dogs

Parenting with(out) you [pt. 1]

Aka: What happens when Dark era!Dazai becomes father a month before Oda's death.

A few notes before you read:

- the reader had a childhood really similar to Dazai’s, this means that from a certain age she was “”””adopted””” by the boss of some task force and since then she works there.

- This story starts when both the reader and Dazai are eighteen years old, some times before Dazai leaves the Port Mafia. They are both adults and Dazai leaves the Port Mafia when he’s 19, so the event in the canon (when he’s in the ADA) happens when he is 23.

- It’s not really explicitly stated, but the reader is depressed just like Dazai.

You met Dazai when you were on an undercover mission in Yokohama and your duty was to find more information about a certain criminal association. Periodically, you referred your progress on the investigation to your partner, whom he spoke with the boss. Of course, you never told them that you were in love with the most dangerous executive director in the Port Mafia, Osamu Dazai

You knew each other thanks to Oda. You fell for him (and he fell for you) at first sight, recognizing in the other’s eyes the same feeling of lingering despair. It was sudden, but you didn’t suppress the blossoming love. In your mind it was fine, since you didn’t have to investigate the Port Mafia. You knew it was dangerous developing feelings during a mission and you also were aware of the crimes committed by the young executive director.

Dazai, on the other hand, didn’t know you were a spy. After a while you had started dating, he fully trusted you: how could he don’t when he recognized you as his soulmate? He read you like an open book and he knew you could do the same with him. Your souls were identical: affection starved and longing for someone who could totally understand you.

There were times in which he demanded your attention, like a dog that ask for being petted: he tried to gain your attention messing with you as you worked, until you kissed him. And other times he took you love forcefully, biting and marking your skin like a predator that marked his prey. The night you became pregnant was just like that. When he entered in your house, he immediately kissed you, not giving you the chance of greeting him. Neither of you spoke much that night. Probably something big happened during his last mission to make him so shaken.

Dazai felt the need to hold you so tight that you couldn't breathe and you let him. That night there wasn't any foreplay, nor dirty words or any preparation. He held your hands as he rammed mercilessly inside you like a madman. The pleasure ran in your veins as you asked Osamu to go slower -he had never been so rough with you before to the point to make your womanhood ache.

Oh, and you didn’t use protection. Osamu was even more aroused seeing his white semen flowing out of you, so he went on multiple times, not caring of the possible consequences. It was like the button of his rationality was switched off. He stopped as soon as he noticed that you passed out during your lovemaking. He recognized he went too far and he murmured apologises to your sleeping for as he cleaned you, promising that he was going to ask your forgiveness when you were awake. He snuggled to your body, clinging on you.

The chance of you becoming pregnant was really low, but it wasn’t impossible. You discovered you were pregnant when your menstruation didn’t come for the third month in a row. You were terrorized: nothing could prepare you for what was going to come. Neither you and your boyfriend conducted a normal life plus, you were also undercover.

What was the right thing to do? You knew how much Dazai tried to keep your relationship unknown to Mori, but a child? Hiding a kid was even more difficult, probably it wasn’t even possible. As you were going out of mind, your partner communicated to you that your boss was planning to betray the government.

There was the chance of disappearing from the radar during the mission and your partner helped you to carry on with your idea. Now you were a civilian. You still didn’t know what to do, if to keep the child or not. You had to talk with Dazai about this situation.

When Dazai discovered you were pregnant with his child, he froze. For the first time he sensed he was going to faint. The problems and the questions were too many and both of you were only 18 years old. You were too young and the situation was too big. The two of them thought about the solution for two months -when the miscarriage was no longer feasible.

With a talk with Oda he understood that there were two possibilities left: giving the child in adoption or trying to raise them. Dazai was scared: neither you or him had a normal childhood or a proper parent. For the whole pregnancy the executive director distanced himself for you: he needed time to think and he didn’t want you to be influenced by his thoughts since he knew your mental health was really important.

He asked Oda to take care of you in his place. Even if he was distant from you, he still cared about you: he called you three times in a week to know if you were fine and when you had to go to the doctor he went with you (he asked Oda if he was in a mission)

The doctor informed you that you could decide to give the child in adoption until a week after the birth. You decided to sustain whatever solution your boyfriend came up with.

Your waters broke when you were having a meal with Oda. Panic overwhelmed you as he carried you to the closest hospital. As the doctors took you away, he called Osamu saying that his child was going to be born. The executive director immediately left the reunion with Mori and his boss wondered what could make the ruthless Dazai so pale.

Osamu stayed outside the room with his friend, knowing that he would have fainted if he were with you. Oda was lowkey amused seeing his friend so nervous renowned his promise to help you both to raise your child. Hours later, the nurse gave him permission to enter in the room where you were resting. His nerves were torn apart: he spent ten hours not knowing if you were okay and if the operation was going smoothly. He knew that there was the possibility for you to die, even if the pregnancy was carried out without any problems, and he regretted the decision of not entering with you inside.

But as soon as he walked in, all his fears melted like snow in the sun: you were fine and you held in your arm a small bundle. The light of the rising sun at your back made you look like a celestial being to Osamu, who froze for a second at the entrance. You smiled at him, on the verge of tears, and told him to meet your daughter.

Dazai wondered if he could hold her with his hands stained with blood and you laughed, handing him the bundle. As soon as he held his daughter in his arms, you understood he fell in love for the second time. A tear rolled down his cheeks and he whispered:”She is so beautiful. She looks like you”. He had never felt so happy and for the first time he understood the value of being alive. He wanted to keep her, he decided it as soon as he saw her for the first time.

She started to cry and he impanicated, not knowing what to do. You held her close to your breast and she sucked the milk. “How can we name our daughter?” he asked in a sweet tone: seeing you feeding your daughter filled his heart with happiness and tenderness. In that moment you acknowledged two things: he wanted to keep the child and her name. You answered: “Keiko*. With the meaning of lucky child”. You hoped that that child could also bring happiness and luck to your new family. “It’s beautiful” he commented.

(Missing part) everyone to be sure none could report him. If you continued to live there, your daughter would have been in danger. So you did the only thing you could think of: escaping. You wrote a letter where you told the truth to Dazai and you left the Country.

When he read the sheet he felt betrayed: he understood why you didn’t tell him your true identity, but he wondered why you didn’t talk to him about the current situation you were in. He was one of the most powerful people in the Country, he could have protected you and your child! Only a week later Oda died and Dazai left the Mafia. It happened too fast for him.

When he joined the ADA, he talked with Fukuzawa about the single-parenting situation and the president understood him and asked him if one of his secretaries could work as a babysitter. Dazai accepted his offer.

Three year passed and no matter his efforts, he couldn’t find you. Of course, he knew that you were trained to cover your traces, but he didn’t suspect you were so good at hiding. There were days when he thought you were dead and in those days he lost the desire to tease Kunikida at work. None of his colleagues knew he was depressed, but his daughter inherited your ability to read him like a book, so she knew her father’s feelings. When he feel blue, Keiko runs toward him as soon as he enter in the house and she tries to cheer him up in every way she can. Dazai smiled with a hint of sadness. So young yet so perceptive, you’d be proud of our daughter.

Due to his new job, he couldn’t spend much time with her, but you can bet he spoiled her as much as he could: he bought for her everything she asked for. Clothes, shoes, games… he didn’t restrain himself at all. But he also taught her how to behave and some good principles.

Every free moment he had, he spent it with Keiko: during the weekend, he brought her to play in a park he’s super careful about not letting the boys come too close to her xd, every night he read her the story of the goodnight. He played with her whenever he could and often he works at home to stay with her Kunikida knows that he won’t work at all even if he doesn’t know the real reason (and he’s right). Above all Dazai is a playful parent, but he doesn’t miss the occasion to scold her when he has to.

Dazai knew that soon or later she would ask him where his mother was and why she wasn’t there, but he still wasn’t ready for her questions. The first time Keiko asked about you, he answered that you really loved her and that the month you spent together was the happiest moment of his life.

When she asked if he still loves her, Dazai told the truth: he still loved you and he could never love someone with the same intensity. Happy for the answer, Keiko hugged him saying:”I want mommy here, so we can be a happy family again”. He hugged her back, preferred not telling her that her mother could be dead or in love with another person. Never as in that moment she wished you were there with them.

They slept together that night and the morning after he went to the cemetery where Oda was. He asked him if he was a good parent and if he was doing enough to cover your absence.

The first time he heard about you, was a year later when a client came to the Agency asking for a detective who could help him to find you. The man showed the photo and Dazai affirmed he accepted the case (to Kunikida’s surprise since the man only showed a photo). Dazai understood the whole thing was fishy since the man claimed to be your father. He was excited that he finally had a clue about you.

He immersed himself in the case so seriously that Kunikida almost had a stroke. Keiko was a bit upset since her father worked at home too, not caring about her at all, but every complaint vanished when Dazai told her that maybe he could find her mother. In a couple of months he finally found you.

The Osamu you remembered is really different from the one who found you and you were really scared when he brought you to his home. You reminded all the fascicles about how he killed people when he was in the Port Mafia. You knew he hated you for what he did and you feared he was going to torture you or something similar, since he showed no sign of happiness or a gesture of affection. You couldn’t be more wrong! He only decided to have a small revenge for the lack of trust.

When you entered in the empty house (Dazai sent your daughter to the babysitter’s house for some days in order to have a serious chat with you) you sat at the table as Dazai took two bottles of wine. “Let’s have a chat” he said as he poured the alcohol in your glass. And the misunderstand happened: you mistook his seriousness as rage, that made you nervous and Dazai misunderstood your nervousness, thinking you didn’t love him anymore.

“I’m sorry for what I did …” then you stopped: how could you address him now? Osamu seemed too intimate for a fiancèe who left her lover for years, so you opted for his last name. Osamu frowned hearing his last name: he didn’t like the distance that the appellative created. During the past four years, he thought a lot about your relationship and he came with the solution he could have treated you better: he didn’t abuse you or something similar, but he betrayed your trust a lot of time and he flirted with a lot of women. In his eyes he treated you awfully and he was really sure you found a new boyfriend, much better than him.

Neither of you spoke much and you were always more convinced that you wouldn’t be able to leave that house the morning. Osamu talked:”Why didn’t you tell me you were in danger? I could protect you, both you and my daughter...”. He thought to call Keiko our daughter, but he changed idea and you were a bit upset by the adjective. Anyway, you didn’t have any right to protest: could you still call Keiko yours after you left her? He continued:”A week later your abandonment, Oda died during a mission and Ango revealed himself like the spy he was. I left the Port Mafia. My word was falling apart and I had also a newborn to take care of. And you were elsewhere, probably with someone else”.

You really felt guilty and tears rolled down your cheek. Dazai, who had covered his face as he was speaking, raised the head and watched you dumbfounded. The truth was that the implied blame in his speech, hurt you like a gunshot, and, accompanied by four years of feeling guilty, she cried. That was their worst fight, even if neither of them raised their voice. She sobbed, telling that she had been feeling a shit for the past few years, that there wasn’t a day without she thought about her family and that she completely understood his decision to consider Keiko his own daughter.

Osamu started to think rationally again and when he understood they were under an enormous misunderstanding, he chuckled, gently caressing her hair. “We are both dummies: I gave you the cold shoulder to have a small revenge of your lack of trust and you thought I hated you. You couldn’t be more wrong: I thought about you everyday too” and he embraced her. You cried even more after knowing that he still loved you.

He carried you in his bedroom and he kissed you until you stopped crying. The moment was so sweet and tender: he murmured sweet words of love and affection, peppering your face with butterflies and playful kisses. You started to undress him and he started to do the same with you. There were still many things to talk about, but for that night it was enough.

The lovemaking had never been so gentle: he did so many foreplays that you were already crying for the overstimulation, but Osamu wanted to be sure to not hurt you. Before proceeding, he wondered if you were fine and you nodded. He kissed every tear left as he told you how blissfully he felt to be in your life again.

The pace was so slow that you almost decided to ride him, but Dazai convinced you with a glare to accept this rhythm. Whimpers and whines left your mouth as he reminded you how sweet was be loved by him and he remembered how beautiful you were.

Even during the afterglow, he continued to coax your lips in a stream of kisses that saw the both of you so close that could not pass a breath of air between your bodies, but neither of you complained about it. After a long wild, when your brain was melted and your body boneless, you remembered that you still had not seen your daughter.

Dazai told you that she was sent to the babysitter for some days since you had to have a talk between yourself and deciding what you were going to do. He promised to let you see her the day after tomorrow since you had to talk about a lot of things as a couple.

He proposed you to come to work at the ADA since you had years of experience as a secret agent and you accepted. The day later he talked to Fukuzawa for your recruitment and when he proposed you an interview for today, he intervened saying it was too soon. Then he hung up: there were still less than twelve hours before you met Keiko and he intended to have you full attention focused only on him.

He took you in his arms and he brought you to your bedroom ;) one night wasn't enough to cover the years you spent apart

Notes:

A lot of things are left unsaid, like the identity of the man who asked for you at the ADA and how Dazai treated you as he worked in the Port Mafia, so if you want you can ask me to write a fic about these topics. Please, ask me. I have so many ideas and headcanon for this AU and Dark Era!Dazai.

In the next part, we'll see how the Agency + Chuuya react to a chibi version of Dazai👀. Be ready for the absolute chaos

[midnightmoonkiss]

Sanguineous.

Vampire! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: This would’ve happened eventually, after all, you did fall in love with a vampire. At least he’ll be there for you when you need him the most.

WARNINGS! Biting, oral (female receiving), fingering, blood, pain, crying, dom!Izuku

Category: Smut

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Yo I’m super nervous with this one.. let me know how it turned out!

Just To Clarify:

This is set in the Victorian Era

Izu and Reader have been together for a while

Izuku is a kind lover, nervous boy

Reader is a virgin

Perm. Tag List:

@coupsieddori​ @desia2​ @strwbrry-lia​

Wet lips molded together passionately, perfectly in sync as desire swirled on the tip of your tongue.

His soft, frigid fingers trailed up the warm sides of your naked body, leaving goosebumps in their wake as shivers trickled down your spine like water.

Tonight was a special yet nerve-wracking night.

One that was bound to happen eventually, since you fell in love with an immortal vampire.

How it happened was still fresh in your memory like soil deep in the heart of a forest, you’d never forget meeting or falling in love with the one you forever wanted to call your own.

You hadn’t a moment to reminisce, the feeling of his cold hands inching closer towards your bare breast derailed your train of thought.

If you weren’t blindfolded and tied to the bed, you would’ve been running your fingers through those soft green locks, losing yourself in his large, emerald eyes that held so much love in them you feared you’d drown.

But for now, you’d do without.

Your senses were heightened considerably, his light touches driving you mad.

“(Y/N)..” He whispered against your collarbone, ghosting kisses across your skin lit aflame as his palms rested on your ribs.

“You look so beautiful..” The candles burning around the room created a sensual atmosphere, their warm light dancing across your smooth skin. You almost looked like someone straight out of a renaissance painting, utterly breathtaking. 

But anxiety and fear bubbled loosely in his gut, his movements slow and shaky. He was excited yet afraid.

Giddy.

Your skin against his own calms his nerves. He hummed when he saw that small smile on your addicting lips, moving to reclaim them once more, grounding himself with your eager love.

You gasped into his mouth once his hands finally cupped your breasts, thumb swiping over one of your perky nipples. Slipping his tongue into your wet cavern, he traced along all those sensitive parts of your mouth with the tip of his tongue, rolling your buds between his large fingers. 

Your back arched off the bed at feeling such cold hands against such a sensitive place, your nipples growing impossibly harder, near painful, by the second as wetness pooled between your legs, dripping down your ass just to soak into the soft, white cotton sheets beneath you.

He pulled away all too soon, eliciting a soft whine of disapproval as he chuckled.

“Patience.” 

His voice was deep, and sweet like honey, music you could play on repeat and never get tired of.

Pressing his lips to the corner of your own, he moved over your jawline, butterfly kisses being left behind. He exhaled heavily at your neck, nose pressing into the crook before inhaling deeply.

Your scent always overwhelmed him, made him lose the slightest bit of control.

He could hear your heart beat increasing, your blood pumping faster through the warm artery just below the skin where his freckled cheek lay snug.

It made him thirsty, desperate to sink his growing fangs into your flesh and to feel the warm liquid flow down his throat. It would be heavenly..

But he relented, pulling away to continue kissing down your body, praise slipping past his teeth as he marveled at your addicting beauty.

His words made your cheeks heat up, hips squirming once he pressed a peck below your naval.

You so desperately wished you could move your arms, but a soft rope kept you comfortably bound as he did to you what he desired. The very thought of having no control thrilled you to the very core, if the sudden throbbing had anything to say about it.

Your legs were then spread, and embarrassment flowed down your body like lava spewing from a volcano.

You had never been spread in such a way before, you were practically open wide like a sandwich waiting for the meat, you could even feel his eyes on your dripping core. Even if you were shy, seeing as this was your first time, you knew you had nothing to be ashamed of. Not with him.

The bed squeaked as he shifted, his hot breath soon fanning over your fresh womanhood as he kept you open for him.

You couldn't control the way your hips twitched, involuntarily bucking up once his tongue dipped in between your folds.

“H-ah.. Izuku..!”

His hair tickled your thighs as he spread your folds open with his fingers, diving in and devouring your very essence with lustful hunger that had you shaking and moaning for more.

His tongue flicked over your throbbing clit, circling around it before possessively tracing his name onto the cute little bud, marking you as his.

You would always be his.

He pulled you closer to his mouth, eager to slurp you up and get you to relax even more.

He knew deep down that you were as nervous as him, possibly even moreso.

You would be giving your entire life to him, after all.

It filled him with such adrenaline every time he thought about it, how you’d risk everything to be his.

He loved you so much.

It was insane to think that someone like him could even feel love after centuries of being a cold-blooded killer that lived under the disguise of a nobleman.

His life was nothing until you stumbled into it, an orphan lost in the woods finding a manor, something straight out of a cliche fairy tale.

Not that he particularly minded, considering it was endearing how someone depended on him for the first time in his long life.

“HaaAAh!! I- Izu..! I’m..!”

The bottom of your tummy twisted into a heated knot, your clit puffy and overly sensitive as he continued to lather it in blissful attention.

He hummed, the vibrations shaking you, and the knot wound so tight it snapped.

Stars brighter than those in the captivating night sky exploded behind your eyelids, and you suddenly felt like you were walking on the softest cloud high above the earth as your back arched nearly uncomfortably from the sheer pleasure he brought forth to you. Pleasure you had never felt before

He was always so skilled with his tongue, both in business and apparently private matters.

He did have centuries to perfect it, after all.

Giving one final lick to your sopping flesh, collecting more of your juices on his tongue, he crawled back up your body, thrusting his tongue into your parted mouth.

You eagerly met his passion, the taste of yourself on him seemingly so scandalous, it was hard not to moan wantonly into his mouth.

He smiled against you, cupping your hot cheek with his cool hand, the difference in temperature making you inhale sharply and lean into his delicate touch.

Teasingly, you sucked on his tongue, thrill filling your body when he let out the tiniest of growls.

“Naughty little girl,” he rasped, “you’re already driving me mad, is it so wise to test my self control?”

As he said this, he momentarily ground his clothed crotch onto your bare thigh, dragging a whimper past your lips from how hard he was, and how big he felt.

How a vampire could be hard, you had no clue.

The undead and immortal wasn’t exactly your expertise.

All you truly knew was that some parts of him were warm and some cold, like an unevenly cooked chicken.

“P-perhaps..” You subconsciously bit your lip, his eyes no doubt watching as you did so, “it depends on if in doing so, you’ll give m-me what I want..”

A dark chuckle bounced around the room, you could almost feel the rumbling vibration from the chest hovering above your own.

“And what is it that you desire, (Y/N)?”

Your name rolled off his dirty tongue like molasses, thick and heavy, an accent unknown to you, lost by time, threading itself through every word, only adding to your obsession with his voice. 

“You know what I want..” He was always such a tease.

But he couldn't help himself. A smirk took over his features as he gazed down at your pouting face with piercing green eyes, you were always so cute when he did tease you. It was much too fun to simply give you what you wanted all the time.

Not to mention.. if he did.. things would escalate far too quickly. He was still nervous.

Even if he was both brains and bronze, he was still just an undeadman with human emotions. Curse being trapped in a young adult's body! He’ll forever feel the horniness of a teen and the crushing responsibility of an adult.

“Izuku.. It’s okay..” Your saccharine voice startled him from his thoughts, have you read his mind? “I want this.. it’s okay.” You smiled reassuringly, and he swore he felt his cold, dead heart beat.

Placing a kiss to your nose, he watched in amusement as you scrunched it up like a mouse.

First things first.. he had to get out of his attire.

Despite you being fully naked, he was fully clothed. It certainly made him feel powerful, but tonight, he wanted to be your equal.

So, pulling back and sitting on his haunches, he unbuttoned his brown vest and white dress shirt, tossing them haphazardly to the floor, careful to avoid the flames of the candles. 

It was a cooler night, autumn changing the leaves of the trees just outside his large window gleaming with moonlight, and so a fire burned in the fireplace opposite of the room.

He didnt want you to be too terribly cold.

Besides, the crackling of the fire calmed his nerves.

Soon he had his pants and other clothing off, and he was as bare as you.

Only, you couldnt see him.

But you could certainly feel his muscular thighs on either side of your own, he truly was a sculpture.

He captured your lips once again in a kiss, fingers smoothing down your belly just to gather your own slick and prod at your clenching entrance.

The prickling feeling of something so cold touching something so hot made you flinch, and so he held you still with his other hand, his chest resting against yours as you took in shaky breaths.

Pushing a digit inside, he groaned at how tight you were, pulsing around his finger and sucking it further into your molten warmth until he was knuckle deep.

“Fuck..” He huffed against your neck, tongue dipping out to taste your salty flesh for just a moment.

“You’re so tight, love..”

“Mm..” You forced your body to relax, taking deep breaths to calm yourself.

Pulling his finger out, he thrust it back in, a wet squelch accompanying his actions.

It didnt take long for you to adjust to the single digit, soon finding pleasure in the way his finger moved in and out of you. “H-hah.. mmMm..” 

Another finger prodding at your entrance made your hips buck up, the coldness addicting as it felt like you were being filled up with a smooth rock.

It felt so good.. you swore you were melting despite the vast difference in temperature.

“I-Izuku..! Mm! G-uh.. hAH! AaAAAH?!!”

His fingers curled inside of your brushing up against a spot inside yourself you never knew about.

He thrusted his fingers inside of you faster, hitting that same spot every time with a wet click. Eventually a third finger was added, and you swore you were close to seeing those stars again.

“UuaaaAhh!! S-so!! Good!! G-gonna.. h-AAaaH! Gonna c-cum!! Izu- Izu!!”

Just as that knot was about to snap inside you again, he fully pulled his fingers out.

“No!” You sobbed, fighting against the restraints as you helplessly bucked into this air, “Izuku-!! Mmph!”

Your cries were cut off as he shoved his fingers into your mouth, saliva and your wetness dripping down your chin.

“Lick them clean for me, honey.” He purred seductively, that wicked man.

Without hesitation, you eagerly licked his fingers, lathering them in your spit before sucking heartily, slurping up your mess, ignoring the throbbing of your clit and the way your core clenched helplessly around nothing.

“Such a good girl, always listening to me.. I love you so much, (Y/N)..” Sighing dreamily, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, staring in awe at the string that connected them to you before it snapped.

“Izuku.. p-please.. please t-take me..! I- I can’t..!” You were on the verge of tears, so desperate for him.

Swallowing the ball of nerves sitting at the back of his throat, he finally decided to oblige.

“As you wish,” he whispered into your ear, leaning back to get between your legs, spreading them wide and resting them on his hips.

To think, you were about to give everything you had away to him.

He was honored, and would forever devote himself to you.

He was excited to never have to watch a loved one die in his arms again.

Grabbing his member, he stroked himself a few times, guiding the tip to your awaiting entrance.

His head kissed at the clenching hole, smearing his precum onto your flesh.

He finally pushed in, slowly, ears perked for any noise of discomfort or pain as he chewed his lip at the intense pleasure.

This was your first time, after all. He knew how much it hurt for virgins if not careful enough. He wanted to be careful, he couldnt bare the thought of hurting you because of his own selfish desires.

“Nh!” The smallest of squeaks caught his attention, and he immediately stopped stuffing himself in. “(Y/N)?” He panted like a dog in heat, voice laced with concern, hands massaging your hips.

“I-I’m okay..! It’s just.. haahh.. You’re… so big, Izuku..”

Was it wrong to have pride swell in his chest at the praise when his lover was in pain? He didnt know.

“Shh, baby.. give it a moment..” And so, he remained still, letting you catch your breath before continuing to shove himself inside your welcoming walls.

He was aware he was.. on the larger size. It must be painful to be taken by something so big for your first time.. but he couldnt help the size of his dick.

He was positive you’d love it eventually, he’d make sure of that.

“Almost there.. you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart..” His fingers squeezed at your hips as he slowly sheathed himself inside, eventually bottoming out with a pleased groan.

While he felt pleasure, all you felt was discomfort and pain.

It was nothing at all like his fingers, you felt like you were being torn in two!

You held back on your sobs, still fighting to relax yourself.

No one told you your first time would be so painful.. Granted, you didn't have anyone to tell you, but a heads up would’ve been pleasant.

But you'd take this, take the pain, because it was Izuku.

The love of your life.

You were overjoyed at the thought of being connected with him, you could even feel his overwhelming warmth, the way he twitched and throbbed inside of you, it was wonderful.

Way better than anything you had shamefully dreamed of before.

Lips brushed against your skin again, and you could tell he was trying to calm you down with his pure love with each kiss delicately placed.

Once you were as ready as could be, you tested the waters by grinding yourself on him, to which he let out a guttural growl.

Slowly, he pulled himself back out so that only his flushed tip remained inside, before pushing himself back in. A heavy pant escaped his lips as you shimmied, biting your own.

He continued to take things slow, rocking in and out of you in a slow rhythm, clutching the bed sheets beneath you so tightly his knuckles turned white as he fought to control himself from acting like a complete wild animal and fucking you raw.

It truly was hard to hold back, considering you felt so fucking good around his aching cock.

Fuck!

He swore you were the best he’s ever had!

His face was pinched and sweaty, eyes concentrating on your own facial expressions as he sped up, wet slaps starting to become a lewd white noise.

The more he fucked in and out of you, the more you got into it, his huge member filling you up in the sweetest way possible, brushing against parts inside of you you hadn't any idea were there.

It just felt.. so nice..

“H-haah.. mMM..! Izuku-! Please.. please go f-faster-!”

“But-“

“I can take it, please..!”

Without missing a beat, he sped up his hips, lurching forward from how good it felt, “Huunnhh..! Aah..” 

You were so wet, your juices started to drip down his thighs as you moaned oh-so loudly for him.

“AaAah! Zu!! Mmnngnn..! F-Feels!! Ahh, FUCK! It f-feels so good..! HaAAaaH..!”

His warm chest brushed against your own as he leaned down, holding you flushed against him as his hips snapped up into yours, thrusts so powering it made your head spin and the bed frame bang against the wall.

Everything was moving, and your body felt like it was on fire with pleasure-filled needles pricking your skin.

“(Y/N).. my lady..! F-uck- you’re so- h-haah.. so fucking tight..!” The freckled man grunted out, passion and desire swirling in his belly as your scent overwhelmed the fuck out of him. He could feel his fangs stabbing into his bottom lip, drops of his blood splattering onto your clear skin below as he continued to shake the bed with how fast he was fucking you.

He couldnt help but shove his nose into the crook of your neck, licking along the column and subconsciously nibbling and sucking little marks.

“Mm-! HaaaaAh.! B-baby..! Izuku! Izuku! B-bite me! M-make me yours! Please I- it’s okay..!”

You were insane to say something holding a thousand meanings and depth deeper than a trench, but you hadn't a care in the world as the love of your life fucked you so good you couldnt think straight.

“Haaauh..!” You words sent hot spikes of pleasure down his spine, and the hunger inside him grew tenfold. His throat was still burning, parched, and his eyes were hyper focused on your neck.

There was no turning back.

He licked your neck with his tongue once again, feeling for that thrum of your intense heartbeat in your artery. Once he found it, he hesitated, pearly white fangs hovering over your beautiful skin as you continued to cry out in pleasure.

This was it.

He bit down, blood immediately filling his mouth, flowing down your neck and staining the bed.

Your short cry of pain should've knocked him off, but he felt as if he was on drugs, his eyes damn near rolling back into his head as your delicious fucking flavor spilled down his throat, all while your dripping pussy clenched around him like a fist.

It felt so good!

You tasted.. so god damn good!!

He slurped noisily, lost in your flavor, your own blood dripping down his chin and your shoulder.

You’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted… like pure sugar cane and honey, mellowed out with hints of dark chocolate and salt.

His cock twitched inside of you, pelvis rubbing against your puffy clit, and despite your love drinking your blood, you were in ecstasy, thighs shaking like a newborn as they squeezed his slim hips that continued to speed up.

You were being fucked so good that you hadnt a care in the world, your mind growing blank and fuzzy from the loss of blood.

“Izu.. haAaAAAAH! Izuku! Let me..! Let me see you!! Please I!! I want to see you!!” Tears leaked from your eyes, the pleasure too damn good for you to handle without turning into absolute jelly.

Snapping from his thoughts, he pulled away from you, licking the two dripping holes, his saliva sure to speed up the healing process.

“But I..! I look di- aaaah..! Different!” He was still ashamed of himself for being what he was, not to mention being so sloppy that your own blood was smeared on his mouth.

“Dont care! Please!”

The bed creaked as you pulled on your restraints, back arching off the bed as if to persuade him.

Shaking fingers pulled your silk blindfold off, and you were met with such beauty.

His eyes glowed a hungry crimson, cheeks flushed and hair slicked with sweat as his eyebrows pinched, bloody jaw hanging open with his fangs on full display, moans pouring out his mouth.

He was beautiful.

“GuaAh-! K-kiss me..!”

You didnt have to ask twice, as his lips soon crashed down onto yours, the metallic taste of your own blood fresh on his tongue driving you closer to the edge as he rearranged your insides, taking away the pain that began to sear your neck.

“MMmMmh!”

This was why he insisted upon tying you up whilst making love, because it fucking hurt, being turned into what he was, and he knew it.

He could remember the day he was turned like yesterday, in that dark alley all alone by the only person he trusted besides his mother. The fear he felt, the pain he felt, all by himself, unbearable.

He didn't want you to go through that, so he came up with the most numbing way possible for you to go through the process.

Tears fell like a waterfall down your eyes as the pain spread through your veins, breaking the kiss to sob out loud, and yet.. you felt so good at the same time.

You were feeling so many things it was hard to wrap your head around it.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N)..” he whispered before grabbing your hips, slamming into you even faster with inhuman speeds that made you scream in pleasure and the bed creak, promptly coming undone as the knot in your lower belly snapped once again.

Pain and pleasure filled cries filled the large room, your own eyes rolling back as red covered your vision, spotted with black, lightning and acid flowing down your veins as you were brought to the brink of insanity.

Izuku pulled out, thrusting into his hand for a split second before he came all over your belly, but he didn't have a second to bask in any afterglow, your pleasure filled cries soon morphing into intense pain as your body shut down, cells dying and being replaced by those much stronger.

You could feel yourself grow colder, you felt like you were being stabbed a million times over again, and there was nothing you could do about it.

The only comfort you had was him hugging you to him, whispering words you couldn’t comprehend as you screamed and fought against restraints.

Izuku lost count of how many minutes passed by slowly, his heart breaking with every cry you let out.

There was no other way, you knew this and you accepted this.

He would never leave you alone, not even as you thrashed about, accidentally kneeing him multiple times in the gut.

It took a painstakingly long ten minutes before you slowly calmed down, eyes fluttering shut as you fell lax in his protective hold.

The worst was done.

All he could do now was wait.

Again.

Morning came and went, and as expected, you had yet to wake.

Through the hours, Izuku stayed by your side, watching as your skin grew paler. It was a damn near painful sight, especially when blood dripped from your mouth from your fangs growing in.

It wasn't until the moon was high in the sky once more that your heart beat, of which continued to slow down as time went on, stopped.

Leaning over your body, now dressed in a nightgown, he stared at your features.

Your eyes moved beneath your lids, and his breath caught in his throat.

Red eyes soon stared back into his own, and he couldn't help but chuckle, despite the situation. He knew exactly what you felt.

“My, my, looks like someones hungry.”

[kuramirocket]

On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan. 

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs. 

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

Other Source

[arkt-nehrim-archive]

                         A Story in Spring : Renewal {1/3} 

"I have a proposition for you."

The walls of the fallen seraph's humble hut had so far been something of a passive comfort, yet Lithirill found no sense of ease.  Her host, and fellow Tel'lmaltath could certainly tell, eyeing her with some hint of concern, slowly rising to his full height, turning to face her once the fire had suitably caught. "Go on."

The encouraging mannerism was commonplace in their interactions thus far, but it didn't do much to make her desirous of speaking her mind, as images played in her head of all she had been plotting in secret, only thinking to bring the matter to him when she -knew- beyond a doubt she could -achieve- her goals. "It is a...personal matter, to you specifically.  I hesitate to even ask, truthfully." At that notion, her company raised  a sculpted brow. How he might've read her words differed from what she seemed to mean by her body language; a normally stood straight, confident woman now half hunched and barely maintaining eye contact.  He simply watched, resting a hand along his hip. It was the only prompt to continue she was going to get. "...Right.  -Arkt-.  I will speak plainly." even then she hesitated, a sigh accompanying an expression of complete honesty, "...I want to reconstruct your wings. I would see you fly again."  

There weren't many things reality could offer him that still surprised, but that had done it, the gentle carefulness in her tone most of all. It wasn't just an offer, but a plea. Arkt's gaze fell to his floorboards, called back to the moment she had seen the tattered remnants, and the conversation that followed where he learned much and more about the individual he chose to champion. Her perseverance in the face of impossible odds had ensured his second chance at freedom from past mistakes, yet here she was still giving. It was not debt fueling her either, but desire, leading him to a thought forgotten sensation; confoundment.

Lithirill only fidgeted in the quiet, narrowing her eyes in passive calculation, half braced for some kind of impact. It took him some several moments to recover, clearing his throat. The ever-present ache at his back he'd still struggled with flared up. Even to this day, the injury pained him, centuries "dead" had been his only reprieve.

"You are firmly familiar with the reasons I lost them in the first place..." he began, watching his company instinctively tense, ready for rejection; instead he would give her a question, "Knowing that, I must ask -why-? To what end would you go to such efforts?" Asked with genuine curiosity, over any manner of accusation; he suspected her of nothing.

Lithirill nodded, crossing her arms and easing her weight onto one leg. "History was one among a few reasons I have debated asking. As for why, well. I feel there are certain wrongs afflicted to those I’ve come to care for, and it is within my power to unravel those wrongs.”

Arkt watched her carefully crafted mask slipping, the woman ever at odds with herself. He wondered if there would ever be a time where she did not engage in the practice, and simply felt at home in his company.

"As you did with Arantheal?"  he questioned, curious to see if he could keep her at that boundary.

Lithirill puzzled over the question for a moment, pondering if it was harmless comparison or an accusation. Foolish to think it the latter, knowing Arkt had no history of resisting her intent.

"...Yes. As I did -for- Narathzul." She corrected, offering a sideways nod and a shrug, "Know I don't need an answer -today-. I only wanted you to know that the idea lingered in mind long enough to...plan for.”

Ultimately, Arkt was touched. Shock still kept a whirlwind of emotions at bay at the mere hint of taking to the skies again, permitting the warmth of the smile behind his veil to only grow as he watched her. She was not having so easy a time, clearly having wrestled with herself on the matter for awhile.

"Is this what has kept you from your usual visits of late?" he wondered, gesturing with a hand in a motion pushing down from his midsection;  'Relax.' he said silently.

Her eyes followed his hand, flicking up to his face like the lash of a serpent's tongue before she took in a breath and let it out, chuckling to herself.  

"In part. Alongside the politicking and the visits somewhere warmer. Thoughts?"

He sighed through his nose as he partly answered with the considering tilt of his head and a prolonged shutting of his eyes, continuing to chew on the notion.

"Too many to rightly voice in a manner composed or remotely understandable. Would you mind returning to Castle Darlan for the moment? I'll have an answer for you come the evening."

"Of course.~"

The professional manner in which she pulled herself together and turned from him showed a wall climbing between them that he had no patience for, the old seraph chuckling when she moved to open the door.

"Lithirill."  

She twitched, shoulders bunching as her fingers fumbled at the doorknob, before she straightened again and smiled a familiar, shy curve over her shoulder. Her eyes lit up a touch when she saw he’d pulled down his veil.

"Yes?"  

"...Thank you."  he spoke, genuine appreciation clear in his expression.

A hint of color, and the wall scattered; his only goal in the moment. She departed with an amused, "See you soon.", quickly on her way.

                                                   ~~~ As promised, Arkt had arrived that evening, uncharacteristically anxious, but Lithirill could hardly blame him. She could not imagine the weight of what her offer truly meant to him.

In times long gone, the loss of his wings, however deeply traumatic, had served a purpose; symbols had power, as much in their creation as their destruction and his fall signaled the end of an era where the Lightborn could rule without fear of repercussion. Yet now that all his battles were over, and this new life lay before him...

It was not long before the old seraph was waxing poetic, teetering back and forth in his words, as was his way. He all but danced between every sentence- whilst Lithirill only offered more wine when his glass neared empty. She refused to rush him in coming to a decision, simply enjoying his company, equal parts devilishly curious and genuinely empathetic.

Such camaraderie came to it's end at the dawn of the following day, Arkt admitting in the quiet of the morning fog that he accepted her offer; even with her many warnings of risk and pain, he had seen firsthand what she was capable of; he knew he was in good hands, even if a fair few of her achievements were with his shadowed aid.

Two weeks had passed since he agreed to her offer, wasting no time in getting started. The first bout had been the hardest thus far- having not yet known just how -much- it took to render a seraph numb, and having the unfortunate task of plucking the feathers he still had. A meticulous, painful, unexpectedly bloody process...but it was safer to start with a clean slate than try to rebuild all that was under them when half the limb had been shorn down to bare bone.

Trippling the dosages from there made things much easier, at least for Arkt. His struggle was not with pain in the familiar sense now, it came instead from a nameless sensation;  the agonizingly slow return of what should never be, able to sense every -tiny- thread of what was lost reconnect. It was as torturous as it was euphoric, and it could only be overcome by sheer force of will.

Tonight would be no different. Lithirill had learned his tells after a few sessions. When in the throes of her spell work, she could spare little attention for observance, but awareness returned as she dialed back, murmuring gentle nothings mostly for her own comfort; though it signaled to Arkt he could stop taking such measured breaths.

The touch of the Sea crept away like the retreating tide, Arkt opening hazy eyes, idly stretching his fingers.  He knew well enough not to move until his companion told him to do so, watching her over his shoulder. There was a slight notion of fear that kept him from immediately looking upon his wings, naked and ghastly as they were. He only had eyes for Lithirill's face, noting the knitted brow and how she clicked her tongue when observing progress, pondering how to proceed.

"I'd hoped to have had bone completely covered by now..." she lamented, drawing again the magicked circles that held his wings in subtle regeneration between sessions, "I've underestimated how deeply the burns go. I should’ve-”

"You need not fret, Lithirill."  Arkt spoke up, a look of assurance crossing fair features, "This shall take as long as it will take, and you have plenty to grapple with without adding the unnecessary elements of haste and worry.~"

"...Perhaps. Still, I don't savor putting you through further pain I could have avoided." she spoke idly, glad he could not feel it as she undid the slings above, gently moving the humble beginnings to rest on cushions whilst she worked tension from developing musculature.

"We went into this knowing it would be difficult. We will endure." he replied, his tone as much an attempt to comfort as it was a statement of fact; she was far too deep in it now to safely -stop-.  "Which for you to manage, requires heady use of those flasks behind you, as I recall."

It was a gentle, but earnest jab to not neglect her own health whilst taking care of him. She might have been Tel'lmaltath, but healing at -this- level for such prolonged bouts tested the limits of even legendary resolves, and Arkt did not fancy the idea of a Shadow God turned Oorbaya.

Satisfied with her ministrations, she sighed and nodded, letting her hand trail down his back as she turned and gingerly stepped away to pluck a flask of Ambrosia from a stockpile. The edges of a smirk tugged at his lips as she made a show of drinking half the vial like it didn't taste awful, raising both brows at him in a silent 'satisfied?'.

"...-Thank- you." he muttered, humming a chuckle, "Do not lose sight of your own well being in concern for me. I must stress, we have nothing but time."

Lithirill tilted her head at him as her eyelids drooped, well accustomed now to the odd heated popping in her ears as the Ambrosia did its work, blanketing the red pressure in her head and quieting the skittering under her skin.

"-Now- whose fretting?" she teased, setting down the flask so she could help him to stand, not letting his wings droop as she supported them from the base, "I don't intend to go hurrying into the arms of the Blue Death, I promise. Come now.~"

Twas a short jaunt to the spare bedroom within her personal quarters, Arkt leading the way and Lithirill matching his steps. The seraph counted his blessings that his pride could not be so easily wounded as she settled his wings into yet another set of slings, these ones arranged to allow them to safely hang whilst he rested. He knew -she- worried about such mental troubles, but he was far too old and that much more taken by fascination in all she insisted upon doing for him to care for foolish things like shame.

"Tell me something, Lithirill." he said, eyes on her as she arranged the vials that would help him sleep, and come the morn, ease his pain,  "What do you suppose I'm meant to do in return for all of this?"  

The question was laced with an undertone of playfulness that reminded her of when the seraph had taken an almost catty tone in Arktwend, all but making -gossip- of the infatuation between those who'd brought Narathzul into the world. She could only raise a brow at him in plain curiosity, willfully stepping into whatever trap this might have been.

"That is hardly a matter to burden the likely recipient, don't you think?  Or am I -supposed- to be reading between some manner of line here?" The teasingly scrutinizing gaze she leveled upon him was nothing to the coy look he gave her beneath the messy strands of his hair, the two locked in a quiet contest before she relented; as she always did where he was concerned. "...ponder and plot all you like, my friend. But hold to that patience you've assured me with. I would say it is early yet to be planning anything more than recovery."  she offered.

Arkt sighed through his nose at that, uncapping the cork to her sleeping drought and drinking it down with a quick chaser of water. Her answer was as good as any. Ponder and plot indeed then.

"Fair enough. Rest well, when you find it."  he bid gently, offering only a smile. For a would be God according to most's definition, who had seen millennia pass and returned even from -death-, he seemed to be handling the life of a crippled patient quite well.

Lithirill could only take that profound patience and trust in her ability to heart; ensure no matter her doubts that she'd finish the job.

She returned the evening farewell and meandered to her own bed, falling upon it like a stone. All too swiftly would the sun rise, and the pair would be again until their great task of renewal was complete.   Lithirill could only hope she'd be done by Spring.

                                                   ~Fin~

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Our Nightly Confidant 9

Lightest before Dusk

Her dresses flutter as she strides into her throne room. The hushed whispers die down at her entrance, her courtiers startled and her guards standing at attention.

When they had mentioned a tear in space, Zelda's heartbeat had picked up. There were only so many explanations, and some of her agents had already confirmed that they felt no hostile power in the spell. Was her Hero back? He'd been gone for weeks now. It seemed only right that he returned to her sooner than later.

(She forbid herself the thought that it might have been-)

But on her way, another servant had come to greet them. Link. Link had returned. And so she had entered with her queenly mask in place and her thoughts light.

A few of the heroes still groan as they try to get back their bearings. By the looks of surprise, it might not have been a very graceful landing. Her people shuffle about, nervous by the presence of armed strangers, and those that recognize Link amongst them... stiffen. She makes a mental note of their faces and allegiances, for later review.

The hero with the blue scarf notices her first, and he goes on one knee with a smooth, practiced motion. A knight, that one, she immediately knows.

The rest imitates the motion or pay her respect in whatever custom their era holds. The youngest is amusingly the stiffest, his eyes not on her but the knight. A touching bond, she imagines.

With pose, she greets them all, until Link's nearest companion – scarred, a little younger, naturally sticking close to Link in the middle of a crowd – seems to realize that she is Queen over Link. His expression turns from respectful to impish, mischievous and far too triumphant.

Link cringes as if he realizes exactly what goes through that one's mind.

… And he put that one's neck in a sidehold, trying to stifle the barks of laughter without much success.

“Oh, hey, your majesty, did you know what Twi sa-?”

Link's hand slaps on top of the exuberant one's mouth. A tad desperate for his silence, and though she knows no words her Hero had spoken would be truly damaging, she cannot resist the urge to tease him. With her best, coldest mask, she arches a single eyebrow. Link's face takes on a cherry red color, one she had yet to see from him.

Muffled and swallowed snickers abound from the group of heroes. Poor Link shushes them, and it is when the knightly one reminds them of her presence that they settle, somewhat. Link looks grateful, and a little torn. What relationship does he share with this hero? One of surface level friction, she muses, that cannot reach the core of their trust in one another.

Link schools his expression into a solemn look.

“My Queen,” he says, a hand over his chest and his head bowed.

“My Hero,” she replies, so perfectly even. “Have you travelled well?”

He has a dark glare for the scarred hero.

“It's been... an adventure.”

Yes, she pictures it nicely now. And part of her warms to the image of her Hero so well looked after.

“Is there need of my assistance for any of your companions, My Hero?”

Link pauses, then quickly glances back. “Right this second? No, we could use a moment to rest,” he says, and rolls his shoulder for show.

She allows herself a small smile.

“I bid you all welcome into the kingdom of Hyrule, brave heroes of time past and to come. Accommodations will be arranged for all of you tonight. Refreshments and food will be brought to you. You need only ask. The Royal Family does not forget the debt owed to its saviors.”

“We would be thankful for such generosity, My Queen,” he says, and the relief in the others is badly hidden.

She gestures for her guards to show them to chambers being prepared by some poor, rushing maids. Circumstances oblige. They'd be compensated in some way later. As the heroes move to obey, however, she raises her voice once more.

“My Hero, I would have you share some tea with me. We have much to discuss.”

A few of them misstep, and shoot Link curious glances.

The one-eyed soldier lifts an eyebrow.

But Link shakes his head at his commander. He lands a strong clap on the man's back and juts his chin at the exit. Silent words are exchanged without even a twitch, and, on cue, eight heroes leave the throne room through the front doors, led by an honor escort. Link, however, breaks the distance between them and offers a second bow.

“I am at your service.”

That you are, she thinks to herself. Her courtiers do not notice. Not the irony of her thoughts, nor the displeasure she must hide from them every other week.

They disappear together through the passage only the royal family may take, and together they climb the staircase to the highest point of the castle. Few members of her forces patrol the area, all of which pay her their respect, and try to hide some contempt for Link. It cements her plan in her mind.

She waits two heartbeats after the doors to her chambers close, then rushes into his arms.

“Zelda,” he whispers, at first, his arms strong around her, “it's not proper.”

She knows. Of course she knows. Many like to remind her. But queen she might be, she is also Hylian, and she missed him. Him and his lack of decorum, care for propriety. She never asked it of him. Not as themselves.

“Farore has blessed many of my court,” she replies, pulling away from him.

Tea and biscuits have been laid out at her orders, and she invites him to sit.

“To think they would still suggest you to be too lowly for any association with me.”

Link hums in his teacup. “They do say Farore loves her fools.”

Zelda shoots him a sharp look. “Do not insult yourself so.”

For all of a second, her knight looks sheepish. Then: “But...?” he asked, his fangs shining in the corner of his mouth.

She lets out a sigh. “But those people specifically are, indeed, fools.”

His chest rumbles with an unspoken hum, a melody from home. Ordon. Zelda has rarely visited, and not once in recent memory. For all Hyrule rules over Ordon, that province is marginal at best. Out of sight and out of mind to most her subjects, she knows. How ironic that the Golden Three would pick their Hero out of this forgotten corner of Hyrule. A reminder, it would seem, that none of her subjects deserve to be neglected. She took it seriously; she wonders more often than not if her nobles have.

Link does not speak right away. He samples the biscuits, always a little wary of food he cannot identify at a glance. A remnant of the life of the traveler, she had long guessed. But after the first bite, he nearly swallows the next two whole. They must have gone without rest for some time before the portal brought them to her. She is glad the kitchen had been forewarned to cater to their whims.

Her first sip of tea coats a floral flavor on her tongue. It is one of Link's favorites, and she can appreciate its subtle qualities beneath the light, almost perfume-like fragrances. She had not cared for it before, but now she is away from public eyes, she is quite famished herself.

Link looks at her like he knows, and it prompts her to, in more delicate words, play with him.

“The scarred, insolent one,” she starts, her tone neutral to hide her teasing, “he is the one the goddesses sent you to help, isn't he?”

Link pales a bit. “My Queen, he meant no-”

“Peace,” she says with a smile. “I care not, My Hero, for protocol beyond its use in social gatherings. Least of all for one I see dear to your heart.”

Reassured, Link relaxes, settling back into his seat with an equally tender smile. His eyes flit to her window, to the rolling clouds and the splatters of rain on the glass. So many tears from the heavens.

(They do not shatter two hearts.)

She banishes the thought. Her Hero is here, and followed by eight others across time and space. The very idea fascinates her. Makes her wish for time to speak with them and show them what records the kingdom has kept. The Chosen Hero, the Hero of Light, the Hero of Time. Hyrule only remembers so few, and there is temptation all on its own, to know that some may come from times yet to come.

But her desires do not weigh enough for the indulgence. Other matters are of greater import.

“Those heroes of legend. You trust them, then?”

“With my life.”

No pause. No consideration. Yes, she had thought as much. If no one else, Heroes of Courage could only be trustworthy. The Goddesses would never tolerate otherwise.

But in truth, that judgment, she had already decided upon witnessing the easy manners Link displayed around them. Link suffers no false-faced turncloaks. There had been nothing begrudging in their interactions. Rather, the brotherly banters they had shushed upon her arrival had amused her as much as it had enlightened her.

“Can you tell me about them?” she asks, gently. Not an order, but a request from a curious mind.

He lights up, and his earnest joy shines above the drab atmosphere of the late afternoon. He speaks exuberantly, familiarly, as if they are old friends. He even manages to snatch a laugh out of her, something she is well aware her court desperately tries ever still. Ice queen, they murmur out of her sight. A few hinges their courtship on their charm, and for the life of her, Zelda knows they cannot equal this simple man speaking of the love he has for these newfound brothers-in-arms.

He speaks of them like Ordon, like home, and perhaps it is what emboldens her to ask, after a delicate bite of her biscuit: “Do they... like their Zelda?”

He raises an eyebrow, his smile smaller and somehow more mysterious. Puzzling. It is not a mannerism he used to have. She wonders which heroes he picked it up from. Perhaps the scarred, one-eyed hero. Link had stood by him with a deference he is loath to show any he doesn't believe deserve it. And that man had been the stoic sort, at least on a surface level. If her suspicions about their respective identities proved correct...

Well. It matters not, she supposes.

Link takes the time to swallow another swing of his tea, the impudent farmboy that he is, and looks at her knowingly.

“The Chosen's smitten.” Link wipes some breadcrumbs from his mouth, which then turns upward into a smirk. “You should hear him when he tries to write her songs. It's adorable.”

“Yes, adorable,” she repeats to herself, willing her cheeks not to burn.

Quick as it came, the amusement drains out of him, and he sounds more apologetic next. “The truth is, I don't know, my Queen. Some of them are fond, some are a bit like strangers, and some are like us.” He points at her and himself a few times. “In-between. What do you think of that?”

“In some ways... reassuring, I would say. Part of me worries that I have not done enough for my kingdom in its time of need.”

He opens his mouth, indignation naked on his face, and she preempts him with a raised hand. He silences his reply, and she does not back down from his glare.

“She was always more important to your quest than I.”

With a grimace, he sits back down.

“True.”

He does not lie to her. She appreciates that, on the heels of a meeting with courtiers who are never honest with her. When they had barged in this very room, during the Twilight Invasion, one cursed, one mortally wounded, she had known that it would be her choice. Her choice, and her chance to save her kingdom. When Link speaks of her, he softens at this part, at the sanded out edge of her wits and quips.

There's a faint hurt in Zelda's chest. A longing, phantom, mere daydreams that do not belong to her. To give part of one's soul is to accept part of someone else's in return. In that way, it is quite like love. She had known it would hurt, and had done it anyway, for her hero needed another princess. But Nayru, at the very least, blessed her too much to let those visions of a brave wolf and braver man cloud her reason. No union could be successful from a pair of fools chasing shadows.

“You were important though, My Queen. Don't underestimate yourself.” He holds out her gaze with the strength that let him challenge the King of Evil. “You were our goal, our salvation – more than once, the last one to give me strength against Ganondorf. You brought the Light Spirits' blessing to that battle, and the Three know I wouldn't have managed without it.”

She finishes her cup. “One's advices are so much more convincing when equally applied to oneself.”

“Fair. We were meant to do it together, My Queen. Believe me, it's like history told me eight times over.”

Her lips curl up faintly. “Only eight times? And to think you could be told a hundred times without moving before. Nayru has finally seen you fit to receive some of her blessing,”

His indignation flashes in his eyes, and settles in his innocent, wolf-like grin. “Aww, shucks. Your Majesty, don't you be using big words to insult lil' ol' me.”

“It was no insult. Your determination often forces admiration, My Hero.”

He chuckles under his breath. He says something that might be 'wolf boy'.

This is what they are to each other: a way to remember one they do not wish to forget and whose hearts long to, so they may at last heal. They are. Healing. She knows this. Just as she knows the process is slow and grueling, but every meeting they hold in her chambers, every teacup shared by the window, their gaze overlooking Castle Town... she feels closer to it.

And by the gentleness in Link's eyes, she thinks he feels the same way. That even away from her, gallivanting through time and space, he has progressed as well.

Naturally, with none of the terrible awkwardness that plagued their early conversations, their words drift away to more casual topics, the health of the servants, the network of the resistance, the state of the kingdom. Easy words for her to speak. They drift from anecdotes about the castle's kitchen to the latest nobility gathering to her bemoaning of the state's newest budget.

At his request, she produces the copy for him to skim, which he does with a ferocity that is rather inappropriate for questions of maintaining bridges and holding the annual solstice celebrations. And therein lies the problem. He begins his commentary.

Link, it must be said, is also a miser of the worst sort. He would never let her exceed budget and does indeed question anything but the strictest necessity. It is as useful an attribute in an advisor as it is prodigiously irritating.

“My Hero, whilst the people can survive perfectly well on a tight purse, they do not want to. I must consider... certain sensibilities.”

“Why?” he finally asks, standing and disturbing his cup on the desk. “Why must you when it seems none of them ever do? How can they bow to you and then demand? You're their queen! Everything you've done has been to help Hyrule recover and thrive. Why can't they put their darned wants aside for one season?!”

If only her nobles could be half as loyal, she might actually enjoy the administration of her council. “It is my queenly duty, Link.”

His stubborn, darkened look recedes. “Aye, aye, I know. Big part of why I believe in you, Zelda, but...”

Her hand catches his, and through her glove and his gauntlet, warmth reaches from and to the divine mark they share.

“You wish it was not so. That others might be willing to sacrifice for the good of their brethrens.”

His ears droop.

To be a hero is to walk a lonely road. To have the world at your feet and its weight on your shoulders. And Link is strong, so strong to have done it.

In her hearth, the fire crackles and spits out dying ember. The dregs of tea in her cup have gone cold. They have been at this long, long enough for the gossip to come back to life, and momentarily, she dares imagine the ribbing Link will be subjected to when he meets back with his companion.

But, Zelda regrets, that would come to a quick stop, once they notice.

She has delayed as much as she could. But, again, duty demands it of her, of him.

“Forgive me, my Hero, for what I must ask of you.”

She sees it in his gaze. The surety, the sturdiness that is a man of the land. Stubborn and decisive. Less delusions than most. He knows, then, that she means it. That it is no idle speculation, and that he will suffer in the course of his duty.

Yet he nods, once, a short thing. “You already are.”

There is no doubt in him.

Not yet.

She names the place she must send him to, and so rises the shadows of his regrets in his sky blue eyes.

He does not hear much of her explanation. She proceeds as if he does, as gentle an offering of time for him to gather his Courage she can afford to give.

“My Hero,” she whispers to him at last, her touch light on his chin, “Link, return to me whole.”

It's as much an order as she dares give, and the ghost of his smile lets her know he understands her feelings.

“As long as you need me, My Queen.”

Need me forever, don't let me go, not you too, is the prayer he will never voice. Nayru help us both.

***

Flecks of sand grates against his skin as harsh winds pick up. He wants to say he doesn't notice, but it would be a lie. He'd rather focus on the irritating grit, on the whistle of scorching dry air. On the glare of the sun even as the shadows of pillars inch closer to them.

Yet, he can't quite manage.

He stares ahead at the place he most hates in his Hyrule.

He loves his country. Loves the beauty he found in every corner, in the smile of strangers and the purr of beasts. From start to finish, Twilight had simply loved the world he was born in. But this place, he can't bring himself to feel anything for it.

(he would be swallowed)

(torn from the inside, darkness spreading, a mask with tendrils forced on his face like those poor people he couldn't save)

“Sky... You probably don't want to get inside that place,” he hears himself say.

The patient wait twists into a knot of tension. The ring of silent question bears on his back, and he turns, comes face to face with a Sky that is stone-faced, all but daring to be left behind. His eyes are more steel than the sword in Twilight's hand.

A nod.

It was a futile hope. Sky was the first to incarnate the Hero's Spirit. He never lacked in Courage. But this will hurt. Hurt so bad to show Sky a glimpse of the darkness that the dream shared with his love will unleash.

(it's not on him, never was on Sky, their sweet knight from above, but Twilight knows too much about heroes not to predict what one feels about responsibilities)

Time stalks forward, diffusion some of the tension.

“Is this one of your world's temples, Pup?”

A temple? He wants to scoff. This place is no temple. Nothing sacred, not anymore. It's a place of misery and pain and grudges never allowed to rest. It's a testament of sin and it's the place he wakes up to in his nightmares, one prisoner amongst many, chained with a spiked collar, Hylian or wolf.

The others wait after his words, and he hates the honest curiosity he sees in their gazes.

He should find a gentler way to say it.

But simply standing in the shadow of this place drains him of his energy. He already feels the weight of memories pulling at his limbs. It takes a mild effort to look back to the old man.

“... No, but I believe it is where one used to be. This is the prison they built when they exterminated the Gerudo.”

Blood rushes out of Time's face. He looks pale, horrified. There's no real need to elaborate, is there? The Hero of Time knows why and how Hyrule and its Gerudo neighbors would go to war.

Something like guilt and disgust twist inside Twilight's stomach. Why did he say that?

“Twi!” Wild shouts, his objection all too obvious.

“Those that stayed died. The warriors. The zealots. Those that didn't believe the kokiri seer had been truthful about Ganondorf's reign of terror.”

Time looks on the verge of being sick. “They weren't meant... ” he trails off, his one good eye staring at the torture complex.

Twilight puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don't know the details. You'd have to ask my Queen for the records of the kingdom's history.” – He sighs, squeezes gently. – “But peace didn't last, and that's why this place was built out of the ruins of a sacred place. A desecration of the worst kind. To let the torments of the regretful last.”

He wants to ease the pain on Time's face so bad, but... he can't. Whatever else happened, Time had been a child at the time. He'd saved the kingdom. The cost...

Twilight fumbles with a match to light his lantern. He can't think of costs right now. It's not the place. The flame from his lantern illuminates the first few steps into the broken doors of the prison complex.

“Be careful inside. This place is haunted by more than just the horrors of Hyrule's dark past. Lost souls and living corpses are trapped inside.”

“Gloom and doom, much?” Legend snarks.

It takes effort not to snarl.

“Just don't get paralyzed by a scream when you're standing on quicksand, Bunnyboy.”

The others straighten at his uncharacteristical snap. That, or the image he suddenly conjured of them, slowly engulfed by torrents of sand, unable to move but all too aware of what was happening. Back then, if it hadn't been for...

Not the time to be losing himself in old memories.

His chest pangs with guilt. The way the others look at him. The surprise. The shock for his poor manners. He mumbles an apology. Turns away quickly to face the dried out shadows of the unlit tunnel.

Farore, he hates how the Arbiter's Grounds empties him from the inside out.

***

There were, to Twilight's knowledge, two likely locations for what his queen asked him to investigate. He had been silently praying when he'd opened the gates to the inner sanctum. Had come close to begging as Hyrule and Legend examined the dusty remains of the paper talismans, and though repulsed confirmed their power long lost, alongside what they had been made to restrain. The Lense of Truth hadn't revealed anything else, and

– he couldn't turn into a wolf, not here, not where she –

it had been a waste of time. Unsurprising.

“Why go for the least likely first then?” Warriors had demanded, his stance a bit more defensive.

Because the Death Sword had been sealed in the middle of the prison complex, and if he was wrong, then Twilight would rather avoid having to backtrack through this accursed place. Upon that reasoning, the rest conceded that he had a point, even if they had some complaints.

“If the source of that dark magic flare wasn't in that creepy cell, why are there some many monsters here?” Hyrule asks, off-hands, as he locks swords with a stall captain.

There's no reason to worry, not quite.

“This place is never empty of monsters!” he shouts over his shoulder, crushing some of the smaller skeletons under a broad swing of his sword. “It's been soaked in blood and torment. No one rests in the Arbiter's Grounds.”

Legend, balancing on a near sunken platform above sinking send, kicks away a moldorm with trained ease. He seems pleased for all of a few seconds, before Wind points behind him at a shambling shadow emerging from an alcove in the walls.

Legend's sword seizes midswing, a piercing shriek tearing through the air with the force of a waking nightmare. The scream bounces in their heads, bites into bones and wraps around flesh. It strikes and tempers, and leaves all nine of them fighting their own bodies for the right to move as it inches ever closer to its target. He hears strangled grunts from his left, clatters of metal on the ground from his right. Struggles to break free.

And all Twilight knows is he'll be damned if this place steals another loved one from him.

He stumbles forward, amongst the first to do so. He doesn't waste precious time thinking, assessing. The shadows swallow him, and he dashes on four legs.

Paws stomp over sand, bugs and spikes as he bounds and leaps.

His fangs tear through the rotten flesh with ease. The revolting taste used to make him retch. The decay, the dry leather, the sandpaper texture of bandages. He's not sure if he's imagining it right now, so numb his whole body feels.

He gnarls on the monster's throat till he hits bone, then leaps off. The thing can't scream anymore. It's barely a threat without that power. It's slow, cumbersome. It drags its claymore through sands, but it doesn't get a chance to swing. He steps out of shadows with his sword in hand.

The mummified head rolls on the quicksand, soon sunken and no more than a troubling memory. The rest collapses, and they can breath again.

He's not sure what his are called. They have elements of both Gibdos and Redeads. The massive sword is only in his Hyrule though. Lucky him.

He spits to the side, the glob black and green, and the taste, worse. “Vet, you good?”

Legend's pale, his fingers twitching, and his feet pull him back closer to the center of the platform. Startled is the word that comes to mind. It comes, and goes. Legend's too – wearied – seasoned to let a mere close call shake him.

“Yeah. Thanks, wolfboy. That beast's out of the bag now,” he says, leaning toward the rest.

Despite the spill of sand, the room feels oppressively silent. Tension knots into his back. He's had nightmares of this exact moment, he suddenly realizes. The moment when the secret is out and it is time to face their judgment, be it words, disgust or drawn swords. But the silence doesn't press onto him, doesn't stifle. Warriors gauges the others, Sky looks about ready to speak up, the same way Wild does. Time looks the most wary, and Four sighs with something like relief. An incredulous chuckle building in the back of his throat, it occurs to Twilight that he never told anyone which of them knew his secrets. He's never been one to parse them out, after all. And now...  

Now, Wind's shock simmers into something else as he looks to the other Links and sees little surprise or even wonder.

“Oh,” Hyrule says, the only one dazed, “I had a feeling.”

It's too muted a reaction. It sparks the flurry of feeling boiling just under Wind's skin. “Really?! We're the last two to learn?”

The way he glares at him, at the others. The accusation is clear. He thinks they don't trust him. That Twilight doesn't trust him. That... that he tricked him. Got the feelings out of him, then mocked him behind his back.

Twilight quiets the 'beast!' his mind screams. “It's not like that, Sailor. I never sought to reveal it to anyone. I” – fear – “dislike talking about it. It just happened.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Wind bites out.

“I mean it, Sailor,” he tells the kid, hoarse. “I'm sorry.”

His tone gives Wind pause. The teen frowns, looks up at him with suspicion. “This isn't over. I'm gonna ask for more later.”

“Of course.”

“Twi,” Wild suddenly calls, his eyes flashing with worry, “are you okay?”

They can't do this inside the Arbiter's Grounds. The traps alone would be too much of a risk.

He shakes his head, then wipes the congealed blood off his blade. “I'm fine. I just hate this place.”

Warriors, with deliberate timing, clasps his hands. “Great. Finally a point in common between the two of us, Rancher. How about you lead us out of here?”

“I'd be more at ease somewhere with less chances of an ambush,” Time adds, still scanning their surroundings.

He nods. Wrestles with himself. They need him. Him, he can't fail now.

“It shouldn't be too far. Let's go.”

Sky's face twists, something like guilt, something like determination. Twilight doesn't regret following his queen's order, but he does bury the sorrow he feels at seeing his brother's dreams further crushed. Hyrule was... is... a country with a long history, and some of it unworthy of the glory it received.

There's frankly nothing Sky can do to prevent this outcome.

The thought flares with guilt. Look at him, giving lessons about making peace with the inevitable.

He ducks his head and turns back to the traps they will need to navigate.

“We'll need some creative solutions, heroes. This place is best travelled with a very specific item, and I only have the one...”

But though Warriors is the only one to share the spinner item with him, the others all have access to impressive resources to play around the traps that litter the Arbiter's Grounds. And even for the few that look perplexed, Sky's whip, Wind's hookropes or their hookshots allow them to swing back and forth over dangerous obstacles to link the groups together.

All that being said, he will keep a closer eye on his spinner for the next couple of days, because Wild's starry eyes at the sight of Twilight bouncing around on complex rails had left him chuckling for the first time today. And he wasn't blind to the intrigued glances Legend and Four had had for the item either.

Were he in a generous mood, Twilight would advise Warriors to keep a close eye on his stuff too. Kleptomania was apparently a shared trait of the Hero's Spirit.

The skull's fragments are unmoved, and their path takes them past even the boss chamber.

Light washes over them, wonderful thing that chases half the ghosts that linger in his mind after a trek through the cursed prison. Cooling winds makes him want to shout after the dusty, heavy air that mummifies every corpse down there. He wants to celebrate with the others, but in the corner of his eyes, he sees the monolith.

Tears spring to his eyes unbidden. Why? Why is he like this? He tried so hard to heal, to get over it! He's an adult, not a lovesick teenager. He's done his best to deal with the pain. So why is it that he can go months right as rain and then, one day, he just hears the wrong thing, sees the wrong shades, and his whole chest crumbles on him?  

On a shaky breath, he attempts to steel himself, to dry the tears. In vain.

He is, Twilight decides there and then, pathetic.

***

How long does he sit in front of the black stone?

The sun started to set whilst he was here. Red light over sand cast lengthening shadows, and it's too easy for him to get lost in his scrutiny of them. None ever came to life. But he still looked, wondered, ached.

With no real hint to direct their searches, the group had commonly decided that they ought to rest for now, with double watch tonight to make sure they weren't taken by surprise in an ambush. Twilight had agreed, and pretended not to feel Time's insistent stare when he slipped away to...

To do what, exactly?

He's not even sure. He's been sitting there, legs hanging by the edge, scrutinizing the stone as if it would come to life.

Eh. A callback to a bitter period of his life. Damn it! He's over this. He is!

So why aren't you facing the others? Didn't you tell Wind you'd explain everything?

He knows his conscience is right. He still doesn't stand. It seems, on top of everything else, Twilight might also be a hypocrite. Goddesses, why did Farore ever look his way?

They're eating, he tells himself. He can smell the hints of Wild's spice mixes from here. Can hear, vaguely, the conversations, and could even guess the contents if he strained to catch the words. He'll have to apologize. To come clean. And that's enough to root him in place. Just a few hours longer, before they can no longer bear his presence.

The idea sends pricks of ice under his skin. Any of them would be a stab wound, but it's when his mind lingers on Wild, that silly brother of his, that the rage hits.

He doesn't know many tricks, not yet. He's still learning, but on anger alone, he feels as if he could suddenly disintegrate the black stone from his glare alone. He wants it gone. He wants to be freed of it, and it's that thought that flashes last when on the canvas of ink flashes shifting oranges and yellow.

Twilight's already upright. That glimpse of fire... It hadn't been the setting sun!

He wishes he could have said he moved with purpose, his mission still in mind, not a short walk that had his heart beating out of his chest. The closer he gets, the easier it becomes to define the impression. There is someone looking back at him from beyond the stone's reflective surface.

His stomach drops when he reaches the steps.

Only himself.

He knows his queen would have something to say if she knew he felt disappointment at his own reflection. With a surly, self-deprecating smirk, he lets his fingers run over the sharded texture. Presses his palm against the ice cold material.

Imagines that the skin is a paler, greyish shade, splattered black instead of his tanned pink. The fingers would curl into his, intermingles. He holds onto the feeling.

Then yanks.

A hand cut from starless night emerges from the stone, and Twilight throws down a dark copy of himself onto the ground. The doppelganger blinks in shock, momentarily dazed.

The expression hardly improves when the Ordon Sword skewers it to the ground.

“The Prison Gate?” he drawls. “Did you think I wouldn't see a temptation coming?”

That you'd be the first one I faced here? he doesn't say. Twilight has always been good at connecting with accursed things. With forbidden practices and tricks played out in the dark. Even before his quest, before all the things that turned him from goatherd to hero, there had been the book he'd taken a fancy to. The mirror in his basement. Old dreams of a dead wolf and a dead hero.

There's a lot Twilight doesn't say, not in front of some dark apparition.

“Queen's dog,” it spits, ink blood sprayed from the corner of its mouth.

Twilight watches, unmoved, as the shadowed being melts back into the sand by the black stone.

They both know which queen it referred to. Twilight, with a faint smirk, shakes his head. Despite his heart's desires, despite the pangs of the chains in his chest, he is the hero of the Light Realm. And his queen will be pleased to know that her Wolf took care of the problem with the Arbiter's Ground.

He casts his gaze over the desert, the setting sun. It's a shame then, that they will have to spend the night anyway.

***

Time gives up pretense. He has polished his biggoron sword and unclasped some layers of armor and fiddled with his ocarina, and none of this let him clear his mind enough to pretend he wasn't worried out of his skin.

Their evening routine is off. Even in dangerous circumstances, they had always managed to build an atmosphere of safety, of care. The ideal that none of them were at risk so long as they looked after one another.  

Tonight's akin to the long nights he spent with Hyrule watching over wounds and illnesses that he knows he could have prevented somehow. Everyone is of a second mind, and it boils over right after Wild finishes scrubbing his pots.

There's one bowl still full, untouched, a little to the side of their campfire.

The last of the pots vanish in a flash of blue lights. Wild knocks over his bedroll standing. “Okay, I'm done. I'm going to check up on him.”

“I'm coming too,” Four jumps to his feet, a split second faster than Sky, Warriors and Hyrule.

“Like hell I'm getting left out again,” Wind says fiercely.

Time wants to sigh and smirks. Goddesses, he never signed up to feel so much pride for these insane boys of his. Even if one of them takes the route of the electrified chu-chu instead, whom Time has to nudge with the tip of his boot.

“Probably doesn't want to see anyone,” Legend explains, arms stubbornly crossed over his chest, but he ends up on his feet too.

“We'll tell him you were worried too, don't worry,” Warriors drawls, and gets flipped off for good measure.

They find Twilight almost immediately. By common consensus, they'd agreed to begin their search with the chained black stone. Twilight had gazed upon it with the melancholy of an old man reminiscing about his lost wife and children. It had to be a direction, if nothing else, they reasoned. More so from the dark vibes Hyrule picked up from the strange object.

But for all their speculations, they find Twilight as soon as they set out to do so, sitting on some small steps in front of the monolith, facing away from them.

“You don't need to be here,” he says, not looking back.

“I think we do,” Wild snipes back, his stubborn expression eerily familiar. (Twilight's.)

“Thank you, but I'm fine.”

“You sure seem fine to us,” Legend can't help snark.

“I. Am. Fine.”

Clipped words against the bars of a cage.

“Don't bullshit us, Rancher.” Warriors calls out, worry too sharp for calm.

The sand near the pedestal swirls against the wind, then dies down.

Behind Time, Hyrule's breath hitches up. Time understands. He knows enough magic to recognize it and its flares when emotions run high.

“Enough. All of you. We're not here to corner him. Pup, we just want to talk with you. You haven't been yourself since we arrived here and we want to know how we can help you.”

Twilight whirls around with a feral snarl. “I SAID I'M FINE!”  

For the first time since meeting Twilight, Time feels the urge to take a step back. He doesn't give in, never has, but part of him is shocked that a hero gave him the feeling.

It's wrong. So very wrong, to see softness sanded away by pain. The glare sent back is raw, unfiltered, untempered. A sliver of flame through a cover of shades.

And... quick as it flashed, the fury drains out of him, the edges gone and the scowl lifted into a guilty grimace. Shades cup around the flames like hands on candlelight, to protect others from its rays. Twilight's ears droop slightly. The look alone is an apology, and it's so obviously the word on his tongue.

But Twilight says nothing, huffs a little breaths and turns away from them.

It can't be a coincidence that he dangles his cursed amulet just far enough from himself that they get a glimpse of it. He's still not looking back.

“It's dark magic, Wind. I take the form of a wolf by using dark magic. And that stone...” They can see his fists clench. “That stone was the pathway to their world. Not the gate, not the key, just... the path.”

Time wants to urge Wind to err on the side of caution, but he can't without tipping off Twilight, and even the casual confession seem too important to mess up.

Wind only looks thoughtful for a split second. “So where's the key?”

“It's gone now. Goddesses know I've looked.” The admittance sounds like old shame. “But the sages of old used it often enough that the mirror left its mark on it.”

“You're...” Hyrule starts, getting looks from the rest. “You're connected to it.”

Twilight hunches, just enough that it's visible. “Yeah. Collected the shards in the sand, bled on the stone, prayed to the Goddesses. Anything that wouldn't hurt someone else, I guess.”

The glaring omission in that statement makes Time's heartbeat accelerate. What did his pup do?

“Anyway, it was foolish. The path can only open for the true ruler of the Twilight Realm, and boy, is it not me. But the experiments did have a few side-effects.” – a hand gestures vaguely to his forehead – “Uli did say the tattoo fit, in a rugged, strong man kind of way.”

That forced cheer gets a cringe out of Four. Time has to file the observation for later. He cannot turn his focus away from the pup now. Not when he's bleeding pain right in front of him.

“A mother's love is blind,” Wild croons.

“Brat. She'd love you all.” They can hear the grin on his voice. “Not that she wouldn't pull your ear to teach you good manners, but she would love you anyway. Her, Rusl, Colin, even little Lumi, they'd love you guys. I'm so lucky...”

His sigh floats away, forlorn, like a love letter on desert winds. Time instantly thinks of the ranch, of the horses and the singing they all clammer to. It makes him remember the sunlit smile Sky had worn when they found themselves surrounded by clouds and enormous birds, the whooping cry Wind let out when he recognized black sails on the horizon, the relief Legend had hidden at the sight of his rabbit-hooded friend.

Time wants to meet Twilight's family. Wants to know those people that raised this remarkable young man. Wants to help them make him understand he is cherished back.

Because he sees the slight shaking that wavered wolf fur on his shoulders. Almost misses the sob. The admiration, the awed tenderness had grown twisted, uneven from a darkened fondation. It builds in Twilight's frame, builds in the thicker shadows on him and the shifting sands at their feet.

And Twilight's fist strikes the pedestal beside him, and something Time cannot see passes into the sand by the pedestal. Hackles raised, Four's skin is paler. He is staring so intently, his eyes almost a different color entirely in the dusk. More worryingly, Time notes with a grimace, is the faint chime he thinks he hears rising from the Master Sword.

“Pup, just tell us.”

And Twilight does.

He looks them in the eyes, a scowl on his face. “Why am I so selfish?” he rasps in disgust. “Why am I so fucking greedy? Why do I demand more than what I've been fucking blessed with?!”

Aren't they allowed a little selfishness? Time bites back. The goddesses gave them each a war. Why was it so wrong to want their peace once they'd won?

“I was lucky. Incredibly lucky. I found the children of my village, not one hair on their heads harmed. I rescued my childhood friend and restored her memories. I proved myself worthy of my teacher and let him rest. I... I saved Hyrule, Queen Zelda, the Twilight Realm. I didn't lose anything.”

It's like being stripped off a mask he had forgotten he was wearing. Twilight's cry reaches deep, and it's too easy to see why it's spoken like it was a flaw rather than a magnificent triumph. How can he make his boy understand?

Wild shakes his head. “You lost things too.”

“Nothing that mattered,” Twilight adds, under his breath, a cruel bite at the truth. “Most of a village gone, half the army dead, Zora's succession in shambles. All before the Light Spirits told me my destiny. But I'm fine. I'm great.”

“I can say with complete sincerity, Farmhand, that it doesn't help.” Legend juts his chin, then shrinks back, somber and restrained. “What you're doing. Don't salt your own wound. It mattered to you. It was real enough.”

Something about that strikes Twilight silent.

“She's not dead, Vet. She's not even hurt. She just had to leave to fulfill her duties as her people's rightful ruler. I knew that. I always knew that.”

And, strangely enough, Warriors speaks up, his voice soft. “Midna misses you, Rancher. She...” An hesitation. A chuckle. “Let's say she didn't say so in as many words, but sometimes, she'd get this look, as dusk falls.”

Wind's head snapped up at him. “Aw hell... you mean...”

“You weren't kidding,” Four muses, looking a bit embarrassed by the late realization.

And Wild hovers, looking so ready to rush forward toward his mentor. “Your scars are worse than mine.”

“There it is...” Twilight scoffs, or maybe sniffs. He's not looking at them, he seems determined to avoid all their eyes. He's staring right ahead, at the black stone that seems to weep in the settling cold of night. “There, there's my tragedy. A fucking broken heart. One... one person I wasn't allowed to keep.”

Time's heart ache. One person. So little, most would say, but his pup makes his sound like he had indeed lost his world.

“It's NOTHING compared to you all!”

The shout echoes over the winds of the desert. They don't say anything.

They can't say anything. Not when the core of Twilight's pain bristles at hints of their sympathy. Shame convinced him he isn't allowed to receive it. A witness to their woes no longer feeling adequate by his good fortune. It's all Time wanted for his successors.

Nayru, forgive me for my lack of perspective.

“Why are you all here?” Twilight hisses, rubbing at his eyes. “You don't need to hear my whining. Goddesses, I hate feeling like this. I'm fine.”

Fine, is what he repeats. It's enough to make someone hate the word.

“You're not fine,” Wild says, firm.

The answering chuckle bites. “I should be.”

And Time suddenly loses all his words, because his heart just skipped a beat. Farore be good, of all things to bequeath his eldest, it had to be this reluctance. Malon would have a field day with him.

“No one asks that you be invincible,” she speaks through him.

Twilight gives a full body flinch. Finally, he stands, stumbles as if drunk – on anger, on sadness, on self-pity – and he faces them all, red-rimmed eyes and a smile that makes them wince.

“I'm the furthest thing from that. Her last words to me were 'See you later'. See you later, as she destroyed the only way to connect our worlds together! Wolf boy, dog boy,” – they pretend not to see Legend wince – “she used to call me that, patting my head or my back. Good boy. Wolf boy.” Twilight's scoff is brittle, shattered glass. “That's what I am. That stupid dog tied to a tree that waits with a big grin for a master that's never coming back.”

His head jerks to the side with a clap.

Legend pulls back his hand, stern despite the worry. “Don't insult yourself like that, Twilight. You're a Hero, a real one, you hear me?”

The pendant around Twilight's neck suddenly pulses with pitch black light. The markings on his face darken. He straightens with some erratic, wild motion, fangs gritting as he lifts Legend with one hand.

“Then why does it still hurt so much?!”

Legend slips through shaken fingers. He does not flinch or back away.

“Why, Vet?”

“That's the life of a hero,” Legend says, not unkindly. “Lots of scars that don't really fade.”

“A hero? How can I be a hero when she thought the only way to keep our worlds safe was to break them apart? We'd just won, but she still... How can I be when even the person that led me to my quest knew better?” Emptiness reflects in Twilight's watering eyes. “I thought she trusted me.”

Time's hand goes to his sword. Every instinct in his body demands that he fights off what torments his eldest this much, that he proves that princess wrong, that he makes her explain and sooth the injury she inflicted.

“She was wrong, Twi!” Wild screams, clearly aching the same way.

Time reaches forward, and, without hesitation, brings Twilight's face into his shoulder. Runs gentle fingers through the gentle brown locks. His boy shudders, then melts. Grips him with desperate strength. It's not long for the wetness to soak into Time's clothes, and he has rarely cared so little about it before.

“I'm sorry, Pup,” he whispers. “I'm so sorry.”

It's a long time before Twilight pulls back, sniffling.

“Pops, the heck ya talkin' about? Didya punch me when I wasn't lookin'?”

Wild and Wind immediately pointed accusing fingers at him, booing.

“Shush you,” he orders, stern, before softening for his eldest. “And no, I didn't sneak a hit on you, Pup, but I wronged you all the same. Sometimes, you're so good at helping others that I forget you can need help too. I should have asked earlier.”

A hand goes to the back of Twilight's head, and his lips pull into a boyish smile. “Ah, not sure I'd have sang, Old Man. Not for something this... childish.”

“It's not childish, Twilight,” Wind says with a sad, half-grin. “If it hurts, it hurts, right?”

Hyrule jumps on the line and wrestles Twilight's hands away from him. “Sometimes, you have to care for yourself too. Even if it's silly, even if it's a little thing...” And there's the shine of green magic dancing between them. “Brighten up your day.”

“Guys, please,” Twilight begins, red flushing his cheeks.

Four slips right beside him and pokes, which was unexpected enough to get a yelp. “No, no, you said your part, Twi. It's our turn.” The smirk is impish, but subdued. “We're on your side. And we do need to apologize.”

Twilight throws his arms up in frustration. “What for? This is just my problem! Nothing that you need to be concerned with. Nothing that you did.”

“Wrong.” Time doesn't notice who says it. Mostly, because he's heard more than just one voice. (It could have been eight.)

“Because... because we let you take it all on. More than your share.” Warriors crosses his arms, huffs. “It's a leader's role to care for his men, and the soldiers to take on something for their brothers. It's how units work.”

Time ignores the pinch of guilt. The Captain hadn't meant it for him, but he'll take the advice to heart anyway. It should be fine. He can see the plans being born behind Warriors' eyes. For once, he's rather convinced that none of the younger ones will protest whatever rigid protocol Warriors' cooking.

“It's not like that,” Twilight mumbles. Weaker, less stubborn. “I love helping y'all.”

“Makes you feel useful, doesn't it?” Legend scoffs, but it is soft enough that Time can't even bring himself to chastise him.

“No. You deserve it!” he says with sudden heat, eyes clearing. “All of you. You all deserve someone willing to listen and help you. I... I just wanted to help you walk through your troubles. To help you find reasons to smile again...”

He sees it, and he wants to laugh. How fitting, that it's words like these that bring soft smiles on all their faces.

“Well, mission accomplished?” Four smirks.

“Darn it, Rancher,” Warriors grunts, giving Twilight a warning look that goes ignored.

“Can't wrestle that one away from me.”

“Oh, we shall see about that. But first,” – Warriors plops down on the sand, not a care for the time and place – “we're not leaving this unsaid. Spill already so we can smile you.”

It's absurd, but Twilight's gaze flares for a short moment with competitive spirit. Those two would never cease to amaze him in the strangest ways. Twilight kicks a little sand at the captain before letting himself lean in Time's grip.

“I hate her...” he whispers, and the shame shrouds him smaller. “Why did she do this to me? Why did she tie my heart to a promise that she never intended to fulfill? I hate her...” he whispers again, near inaudible. “And I hate that I love her still...”

“So?” Wild slides in.“You know me. You know how I feel about those people from my past.”

'They were friends with me. The whole world told me I was friends with them. Sometimes, it's like I can't escape it. Even if I don't remember what food they liked, when we met, what secrets they had besides what a few glimpses told me...'

“Remember what you told me?”

Twilight huffs, looking sullen and trapped. It takes a little sigh, and then knocking their foreheads together for him to admit. “S'fine if you don't know.”

Time nods, chasing the feeling he usually avoids. The bittersweet triumph at the cost of so many friendships. The lack of recognition meant for strangers on familiar faces.  

“It can be difficult, to share people's joy when the same reason brings us pain. You can be of two minds on the same topic, Pup. People aren't that simple.”

“I feel weak.”

“You're not weak, Twilight,” Sky said with a sad smile. “If I lost my Zelda... I'd shatter.”

“Need I explain what losing Malon would do to me, Pup?” Time adds, rueful.

“But they're... you're couples. Real couples. We were never...”

Legend smacks his shoulder. “'What if's can be more painful than a clean break,” he says, and the two of them look like mirror images, lost to their dreams for the span of a heartbeat. Then, sharper, “Don't apologize.”

Twilight's mouth clicks shut.

“We're in your corner,” Four says with a private smile. “As long as it takes to make you feel better.”

The blush returns. Time will be asking for context later, though he has an inkling. Wind shuffles to one feet, then swears and pats Twilight on the back without looking at him.

“And, you know, there's nothing shameful about crying. Or missing people. Or, you know, strange sadness.”

The pup breaths out a watery giggle, and a whimpered 'brat!' Wind smugly croons to the others, saying that was how it was done. Right until the laughter turns into a shudder, and they gather round again.

“It's okay, Twi,” Sky cooes, bringing him into the folds of his sailcloth. “Let it all out.”

The pup's fight left him. Too drained by the confession. Too raw from unbinding the wraps around his wounds. It's up to them to take care of it, and there's not one of them that hesitates. They're not in the habit of leaving suffering ignored, besides their own. Not anymore.

They promise to be better.

They have to be, for each other's sake. And they will be, Time will do everything in his power to ensure it comes to pass. Their group will come out of it reforged by their own inner fires. Their bonds unbreakable, their trust rewarded.

Thank the Goddesses for the pup.