#toxwrites

[prismatoxic]

if you guys remember the heatfic i was posting excerpts from months ago, here's a bit of what i added to it more recently

[operaofsocks]

hiiii :3

content warnings are back because there was like... actual stuff to warn for this time. i also desperately need to add them to the chapter with, y'know, drowning in it

i was adding them chapter-by-chapter as i revised the earlier ones and will probably keep doing that. if an early chapter has the CW dropdown or says no CWs apply, that means i spruced it up recently!

anyway! let me know what you think!!!! or leave a kudos! or just reblog/like this post if you've already left kudos! or send me a nice message! or, idk, think positive thoughts in my direction?

[mickeyjunk]

writing commissions!

Hi everyone! now I don’t actually post much personal stuff on here, but I’ve recently had a huge fight with my father. His denial of my gender and my sexuality, in addition to both his and my mother’s denial to allow me to see my therapist, has finally resulted in me giving up on them. I’m going to open commissions to allow me to save money that they don’t know about(on a private paypal account) for when I can finally move out. 

If you have any questions about where I’ll be putting the money, where I’ll be going when I get out, or anything else, just shoot me an IM!

Prices are under the cut because I don’t want to clog up anyone’s dash.

fandom based (I will write for any fandom, even if I don’t know it!);

oneshot, 1000 words- $15

+sequel- +$10

+chapter- $5 for every additional

prompt-based, non fandom (creative writing, poetry, songs, etc)- 

$10 p/1000 words

All finished commissions will be put up on @toxwrites, my new writing blog. Please ask if you have any other questions!

[prismatoxic]

Things don't go as planned during the final confrontation with the Winged Lion, and Laios loses his identity, trapped in the body and mind of an animal. When he emerges from the dungeon after months, barely humanoid and mentally feral, it's Chilchuck who finds him and is tasked with helping Laios fix what's been broken. Taking back his identity is only half of the puzzle, though. Laios is hardly fit for the responsibility he's soon saddled with, yet there are no other options; his friends will do what they can to ease the burden, but ultimately, Laios needs to somehow rise to the challenge. His intense emotional attachment to Chilchuck overrides all else, but turning a beast back into a man is a bigger task than Chilchuck has ever tackled before, and he's not sure he can pull it off.

hey what if this guy was in the real world for some reason 👇

would that be crazy or what

(collab with @captainfkingmagic)

[prismatoxic]

(trips and falls and this spills out of my pockets) OH CLUMSY ME... well it's here now you may as well read it

[prismatoxic]

The night that everything changed.

It’s not often that Felix goes to Matt’s penthouse. He doesn’t like to; it feels too much like meeting a fox in its den, expecting to walk out unscathed. Not that he fears what Matt will do to him, at this point—they’re well past that. It’s more that he doesn’t like handing control over so readily. Let Matt come to him, grovel for sex and attention from his “devotee”. It’s all part of the game. Matt needles him to come over sometimes (“come over” here meaning “move in”), but Felix has his standards.

Tonight’s different. Maybe it shouldn’t be. He tells himself it’s not his business, but it’s been too long now to not know how Matt works, his idiosyncrasies and patterns of behavior. Seeing him actively agitated is… unusual. Not even angry agitated, but twitchy and restless, pacing his office floor and storming through the halls between every task of the day. Asking him about it didn’t answer anything, so here they are; Felix came home with him. He tells himself it’s for observational purposes. Matt doesn’t ask.

(Matt also clung to him the whole ride here, seeming unwilling to drive on his own; he’s ridden with Felix before, but this was different. His grip was tight, whole body pressed into Felix’s back like he wanted to crawl inside of him.)

The penthouse is luxurious to the point of obscenity, everything within it expensive and ornate, one wall made entirely of windows to overlook the city below. It’s easy to view Matt as what he is, like this—a god, looking down on humanity like so many ants. Yet tonight is still different, and as Felix shrugs off his coat he glances over to find Matt standing stock still in front of the glass, staring outside, body tense. He doesn’t look like a godking surveying his kingdom, this time; he looks like a man sentenced to the gallows.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?” Felix asks, exasperated, as he flops down on a lavish sectional couch that feels too stiff to suggest anyone ever actually sits on it.

Matt doesn’t answer immediately, hands moving restlessly at his sides as the sunset outside frames the edges of his form in pink and gold. Felix considers letting it go for the moment, but it’s as he starts to look away that he sees something… odd.

There’s a sort of shimmer drifting around Matt, like a glittering fog, dark in color but also nigh invisible. That doesn’t feel like it makes sense.

“...You’ve been doing your research,” Matt finally speaks, voice distant. “Haven’t you? On me. What all do you know?”

This has come up before. Only, Matt doesn’t usually reference it so directly—Felix asks him evasive questions, alludes to things he knows, and Matt gives him one of those smug I know more than you smiles he’s so good at.

Felix lifts his legs, crossing his ankles on a wooden coffee table that probably cost more than he earns in a month. “What, about your old cults? Because—”

“No,” Matt cuts him off. “No, before that.”

“...Nothing.” That stings to admit, but it’s the truth; every religion Matt’s been a part of has different theories on his origins. “Why? Are you going to tell me?”

Matt goes quiet again. Felix lets out a resigned sigh, but before he can be properly annoyed about it, Matt tears away from the spot he’s been rooted to and starts to pace by the glass.

“I was banished from where I was born,” he says in a rush, and Felix watches as the shimmery vapor trails after him, sparkles catching in the fading light outside. “It’s—It’s far away, an unfathomable distance away. In the cosmos. A place in between places.”

So he’s from space, Felix muses, finding himself both surprised and not (honestly, the banishment is more noteworthy). He’s never been much for religion, but he’s seen enough of the theories about Matt to have several options to consider; space seems almost too simple, yet also fits his image of Matt like a glove. He considers making a joke about aliens but ultimately decides he’d rather just listen, for now.

Matt turns on his heel, marching back the other way. “When I was banished I lost my true form. I came here as an essence—the stardust that makes up the core of my being. It’s why I always take on vessels. Without them, I’m… intangible.”

Felix draws his lips into a thin line, a worrying concept being drawn to light by Matt’s rambling. ��Hold on. Are you about to go back to that?”

Matt finally looks over at him. The moon that’s becoming progressively more visible in the sky behind him is full, the glow of it bright enough that it won’t matter soon that Matt didn’t turn on the lights when they got here. Cast in shadow, his eyes are hard to make out; the gold ones glow, sometimes, but the green ones don’t. His godhood isn’t on display right now. He’s just a scared-looking man.

“No. Yes? Not quite.” Matt approaches, dropping himself to sit near Felix, bent over with his elbows on his knees. “Don’t worry. The cosmos isn’t about to take your kill from you.”

“I was worried,” Felix scoffs. He wasn’t. Not about that, anyway.

“Celestial bodies are ever-changing, always moving,” Matt mutters, clasping his hands and resting his chin on his knuckles. “The… alignment of stars and planets can affect things far beyond them, especially if those things are starborn. I’ve felt it for some days now. There’s a celestial alignment happening tonight that will disrupt me.”

Felix raises both eyebrows, leaning back and resting his elbows on the back of the couch. “Disrupt? How so? Are you going to be removed from Matthew’s body?”

Matt laughs, low and with no humor. “It’s my body now. I’m not going to be expelled from it. Just…” He unclasps his hands, holding them out flat and laying one over the other. “Like oil on top of water. I’ll be separated. When the event ends, I’ll be whole again.”

“And you let me be with you for this?” Felix asks with a snort.

Matt sits up straighter. The sun is all but gone outside, now, the penthouse bathed in moonlight. The starstuff swirling around Matt seems more distinct than it was before.

“If you kill me like this, you will kill the body,” Matt explains, his voice laced with an edge of something Felix can’t quite define. “You will not kill me. I’ll be free to find another vessel. So if getting this body out of the way to take over the company is still your goal, I suppose I was a fool to allow you to be here.”

He turns his head, and Felix feels a chill run through his veins as Matt’s eyes meet his. They’re not green anymore—the irises are pitch black, glimmers of tiny stars within.

“I don’t think that’s what you’re after,” Matt murmurs.

He’s not wrong. Felix hasn’t cared much about the company since he discovered Matt’s true nature; his goal now is to kill a god, not be a CEO. Killing Matt is meaningless if all he actually does is destroy the body he’s in. That’s what he tells himself, anyway—that he has to kill Matt still. Like a hunter who can appreciate his quarry’s beauty but knows it has to die.

The room feels colder, now. Felix lowers his arms and leans forward again. “Maybe not. I guess I’ll just watch, then. Sounds like I’m about to see something interesting.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Matt asks, turning more towards Felix, the motion trailed by afterimages of stardust. “To observe? What will you learn, I wonder?” It’s almost like he’s trying to command some of his usual intimidating persona, but there’s something broken about it, almost frantic. Felix has to wonder if it’s because the event is uncomfortable, or because Matt was lying to him about going back to normal after this. Is he actually afraid?

“I observe you all the time,” he says. “How’s this different? Just because I’m—” As he speaks, Felix reaches out to touch Matt’s shoulder, and the words die in his throat as he makes contact with a surface that’s unnaturally cold.

Matt jolts away from him like he’s been burned.

“Woah,” Felix mutters, staring at the stardust clinging to his fingers. It drifts off after a moment, returning to Matt, who’s still leaning away as his chest heaves like he’s just been running for his life. “That was… weird.”

Matt doesn’t respond. Felix watches him for a moment, then shifts closer, reaching up to touch again; Matt’s head snaps to the side, his pupils bleeding out into the whites of his eyes as he bares his sharp teeth in a warning. “Keep your hands to yourself,” he hisses, but it’s even more broken than before, the sound both faraway and like a whisper in Felix’s skull.

“Stop freaking out,” Felix mutters, moving his hand to Matt’s opposite shoulder to pull him closer. For all his power and his obvious alarm, Matt doesn’t really resist, only leaning away even as he’s pulled flush against Felix’s side. He’s not even fully sure why he does it; maybe because the way it feels is fascinating. Maybe because Matt is shivering, like the cold is actually affecting him.

“St-op,” Matt croaks, baring his teeth again, much closer to Felix’s face now. Felix isn’t looking back at him, though—he’s looking down at Matt’s chest, where it almost seems like his starstuff is leaking out of him. He raises his free hand.

He’s not sure what he expects. That it will be even colder, maybe, or something else he’s familiar with, a sensation he has a name for. His fingertips touch Matt’s chest, but where he should be feeling the fabric of a shirt, what Felix actually feels is something like the surface of water. That, and something… more.

Matt grips his wrist. It’s a fragile hold, like reluctance rather than a command; Felix looks up to meet eyes that are fully black, stars blinking in and out of existence within.

“Don’t,” Matt whispers, his voice overlayed by unfamiliar echoes.

Felix stares into his eyes a moment longer, trying to discern the emotion Matt is displaying. Terror? Trepidation? Something else? He looks down again, where his fingers have just barely breached the surface. When he pushes, Matt doesn’t stop him, his wrist sliding through trembling fingers. It is cold, he finds. It’s also not; it’s like feeling nothing, but it’s also like feeling everything, something vast and unknowable swirling around his hand.

For a blinding moment, Felix is rocketed back to being a young teenager: he feels dew and dirt against his skin as he lays in the grass of the field behind his neighborhood. Above, as far as the eye can see, is the night sky; the light pollution is just low enough that he can see major constellations, maybe even something more, hints and whispers of the galaxy above. Shunned by his family and peers, disinterested in their approval anyway, he takes solace in the unfathomable reaches of space above.

Matt—or who he really is, the godking with a name Felix hasn’t figured out how to say—feels like what looking up at the night sky feels like.

He moves his fingers, running his thumb along something that is also nothing like one might caress the face of a lover, and Matt shudders in his hold. “Easy,” Felix murmurs, and he finds that applying just a little pressure with his arm makes Matt lean into him, head thudding onto his shoulder. “...Am I hurting you?”

Matt shakes his head.

He’s pliant, now, and when Felix lowers his arm to wrap it around Matt’s waist, he finds it easy to nudge the god into his lap, his shoulder against Felix’s chest and legs drawn up as if to make himself as small as possible. As Matt breathes heavy against his neck, Felix coaxes the essence of him more into his palm, stroking it as it phases through his flesh like neither of them are touching at all.

Yet they are touching. They’re touching more than they ever have before, in a way Felix knows humans can’t touch one another. For a person, maybe this would be like taking their soul in hand, the very core of their being; for Matt, this is his being. This is the very thing that he is under the body he stole, what remains of whatever he was before he lost the form he was born into. He is both massive and weightless, cold as death and warm as a kiss, as empty and as full as the universe hanging in the sky outside.

Felix tilts his head, brushing his lips against Matt’s hair. This moment is indescribable—the sort of experience once could only have with a god, a being of the cosmos so far beyond his own comprehension as to be entirely alien. If there’s a word for it, though, among all the ones he knows, Felix supposes he might refer to it as tender. He can’t really answer for the things he’s doing; he certainly doesn’t have the words for how it makes him feel. How often do hunters do this with their prey?

It feels like it goes on for hours. Whether that’s true or not is almost impossible to discern, like time itself warps around them throughout the event. Gradually, as the light of the moon changes angles across the penthouse floor, Felix starts to feel repelled from Matt’s chest, as though a magnet his hand is polarized to is nearing his palm. He stays as long as he can, caressing the stardust swirling around his fingertips, but finally the resistance is too great and his hand slides back out. When the sensation ends, Felix presses his fingers to Matt’s chest—solid, covered by the fabric of a plain shirt.

The room feels warmer. Matt, panting in Felix’s lap, also feels warmer. Chasing the tail end of the moment, Felix raises his hand to Matt’s face, cupping his jaw and thumbing over his cheek. It feels damp.

As Matt’s breathing evens out into a normal rhythm, the remaining tension in his limbs seeming to abate, Felix rests his jaw against Matt’s head. “All things considered,” he sighs, “you’re really pretty on the inside.”

Matt lets out a sharp exhale. “...the most vile things can be beautiful, Felix.”

Vile. What a word. It’s almost baffling; Matt never refers to himself as anything less than a gift to all those lucky enough to be graced by his presence. Felix knows he’s a monster, and certainly Matt agrees, but it’s not something he ever mentions disparagingly.

He hums, moving his hand down along Matt’s neck. “Does it really matter?”

“Does what really matter?” Matt asks, sounding almost impatient.

“If they’re vile,” Felix clarifies, running his thumb along the artery of Matt’s neck that he’s cut dozens of times with no lasting results but soiled clothes and a bloody mouth. “Does it really matter when they’re so… perfect?”

Finally pulling away, Matt sits up, fixing Felix with a look that’s both tired and unimpressed. His eyes are green again, for as visible as they even are in the gloom; the tear tracks on his cheeks aren’t visible at all, but Felix can feel them on his own skin now that it’s exposed to the air.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you, you know,” Matt informs him dryly.

Felix can’t help but smirk in response. It’s cute, he thinks, to see a god try to save face after an intimate moment. He reaches up, curling his fingers under Matt’s chin to thumb over his lower lip, a gesture that earns him narrowed eyes but no attempt to pull away.

“Like I don’t know that already.”

[prismatoxic]

i was struck with inspiration, as tends to happen, and wrote a quick oneshot about matt. it's another second person character study, like the one i did with felix a while ago.

matt doesn't talk about his past in depth. not really. it's easy to find the legends and myths of his old cults, track the path of the godking across time. that's surely more than enough.

but he wasn't always the godking. for a while, after he was banished from his home, he wasn't anybody at all.

-----

You do not belong here.

This world calls to you, its presence familiar and foreign, strength and weakness in equal measure. There are beings here just as immortal as you. Yet when you land on the earth like a meteor from the heavens, you find yourself writhing, twisting, aching. Unwelcome. This is not home, nor is it the cosmos. It is something else, something visceral, something real. It clashes against the very fabric of your being.

You do not regret. You have no remorse. You did what you felt was necessary, and your banishment was a price worth paying. They will remember you as long as the universe draws breath. Even so, for all this was something you knew would happen wherever you went, it draws such horrible things from you. Not regret, no. Pain. Rage. Fear.

You find a beast and enter its body, devour it from within. Its soul teaches you about the way the world feels, how to navigate it, how to survive. Your essence is too large for its form. You burst out of it in new limbs, greater mass, a gaping maw and gnashing teeth far greater than what it had before. Terrified, furious, lost and alone, you do what you do best: you consume.

They are such fragile things. Not like the beast you became, no. They are like you: the apex entities of their world, those who control, who rule, who become. Yet they are nothing like you, for their bodies break in your jaws like glass, blood and viscera squeezed out from beneath delicate bones that cannot withstand your countless teeth.

You learn nothing from this. It isn't the same as eating from within. Nothing is imparted to you but the taste of their flesh, the weight of their organs. You do not belong here, and the laws of this world are alien to you. The carnage does not stop until a whole village is naught but blood at your feet.

You exit the beast. Its form cannot survive without a host and falls apart under the weight of the changes you made. You leave it far behind, sweeping over vast swaths of land and sea, searching. For what? You have no idea. Much like you knew this world when you found it, surely you will know your new life when you find it.

A lone body. A fragile soul. You slither inside and swallow everything within, and this time you learn things. So much more than the beast knew. You learn language. You learn culture. You learn song and dance and love and loss. You are overwhelmed, and once more your essence is too large for this vessel. You bleed out in scales and feathers and rows and rows of teeth, and that is how the vessel's people find you.

You are afraid, and you are alone. You sink your teeth into one of them and hold on with intent to crush, to kill. What is it that they see in you? They free their companion—your body is small, and you don't know how to exert your full strength from within it—but they do not seem to resent you. You kneel trembling in desert sands with teeth bared and they offer you things: fruits, carvings, animals, clothes. You begin to calm down. They think you're something else… something divine.

They think you're a messenger from their God.

The one you bit claims it's a sign of favor. You observe their bodies, their dialect, and with the vessel's memories safely in your grasp, you reel the edges of your essence into a more compact shape. You become human. The people celebrate the return of their neighbor, and you feed them lies that align with what they believe: you were inhabited by their God. Perhaps now you even speak for Him. They believe you without question, and you are crowned a prophet, a voice for their God to speak to them with. If this God truly exists, you're not sure how to find Him, but you're not particularly worried. You can be their God.

It feels good, you think. To be respected. If only this was what they'd given you back home.

Things are not always easy. Sometimes you are still too vast for your vessel. The fear and fury seep out through the cracks again, and you become larger than this consciousness can contain. These events are seen as visitations from a being beyond their knowing. That works in your favor until it doesn't, until the village is naught but blood at your feet. You leave your vessel behind.

You don't belong here. You don't know how to be them. You find the others, the not-humans in the shadows of human societies, but you don't know how to be them either. They fear you, can smell you from miles away and avoid you outright whenever possible. They have power, control over this world that you don't understand, but it's beyond you to grasp. That leaves you with the humans. They are the core of this world, its heart and lungs and spine. They are the foundation of all you need to know.

Your first vessel's memories take so long to fully bleed away. By the time they do, you've taken on another. You'll do better this time. More clean. Efficient. You'll drink in their worship and learn their world, fulfill your own need to be respected and valued. Your desire to be important. As their God you are their everything, and they throw their lives at your feet… sometimes literally. You begin to gain a real taste for their flesh.

You grow bored. Restless. You devour too many of them and leave in the dead of night, vessel broken like the rest. In no time at all you find another to become. You crave it, now, this being, this existence of blood and bone. This one, however, when you devour it from within… This one gives you new things. Things that had been white noise in the vessels before but are now too loud to ignore. The vessel is married, a wife expecting child. She is shocked by how forward you are. How insistent. His desire courses through you, unchecked and uncontested, and you learn pleasures of the flesh firsthand. The wife bores you, however. She is sacrificed to the God—you, of course, but obviously you're only a prophet—and with newfound freedom you take several lovers before picking one who pleases you most.

The actions of your people gain notoriety in ways they haven't before. There is a ruler here who claims to supersede you, a king and his vast army. Something stirs within you as you are informed of your treason. A being higher than you? Higher than a God? No. No, that isn't allowed. No longer will you be beneath anyone.

You devour the soldiers. All of them. With energy overflowing from your essence, you warp your vessel into something horrible, something violent and ugly, something beyond your people's comprehension. You storm the capital by yourself, and with a rapt audience screaming at your feet you tear the king's throat out with your teeth. There is no king, now. There is only you. Only their new God.

Their Godking.

Yes. You love that. You love the power of it, the weight, the presence. You, a winding serpent, a canopy of stars, a glutton and a traitor… you are the Godking. You are all that there is and all that there can be. The highest authority, the greatest being.

You do not know how to rule a kingdom. It falls to ruin, and you leave, none the worse for wear. You have an identity now.

That's where the routine begins. You become a prophet, forming a cult around the Godking. You take lovers, often choosing one to be your closest companion. You toy with their lives, their hearts, taking what you please and devouring them as you see fit—the Godking requires human sacrifice, after all—and all the while they worship you to the detriment of all else. Dissenters are made an example of. Would-be assassins are consumed. No one knows the truth, and any who get close are too afraid to look further.

When is it that it grows dull?

You know you don't belong here. You never have, and you never will. You cannot go home and you do not wish to leave, but you don't belong here. No matter how many people you become, that will always remain true. You are the Godking now, but that in and of itself is just as alien a concept as you truly are. And underneath it all…

Who are you, exactly? The serpent feels so far away, and the canopy of stars is even farther. Frustrated, afraid, you begin to give your followers the name of the Godking, but their throats cannot make the sounds. You show them how it looks and their runes are crude approximations of the images it should be. They translate it into their languages, but it's never right. It's never you.

Who are you?

A thousand lives, a million eyes reflected back at you across eons untold. You have been everyone and you have been no one. You have been countless different people, but you've only ever been you. Or is it that you've only ever been the Godking? Who are you?

Are you anybody?

Have you ever been?

Can you be somebody without a name?

Does the one you gave yourself count?

Does any of it matter?

You drift. You devour. You live, and you exist. You escape the confines of time and progress in the deepest depths of the sea, calmed by the tides. You emerge again to start anew. A new cult, but the same story. The same Godking. The same you?

The call surprises you. An invocation of the runes you tied to your name. Were you not in the area, you'd never have heard it, but you were and you did and you answer it on a whim. There is no cult this time. There is a plea of the Godking, yes, but when you elect to respond in that name, it isn't a new religion you thrust yourself into. You agree to help a company prosper, and the man who begs for your aid falls apart when you tell him to. His body doesn't interest you. His son, however, feels just right.

It's new. It's different. You adopt the boy's mannerisms as well as you ever do, but you do not use this vessel to lead. Not quite. For once, you work from the shadows, allowing the established leaders to believe they still have control. There's a certain thrill to it, really. Having them believe you to be naught but a figurehead when you're puppeting everyone around you. The others are here in great numbers, and you begin to craft your ideas for an ideal takeover using their strengths to your advantage. This is fun.

In the sea of employees, one doesn't stand out until he does. You just barely turn your head to acknowledge his presence when he sends a bullet through your skull. You're no stranger to assassination attempts—if anything, you love them. The fear on his face when you don't stay dead is exactly what you want to see. Yet something about his response strikes you as unusual. In the end, he does not run, even when you give him the chance. He fears you, but not in the way you're used to being feared. You try to break him and find that it only strengthens his resolve.

You've always enjoyed taking on lovers. Special companions. This life may be different, but surely it's fine to keep the parts you like most from all the others. He falls into a dynamic with you easier than any human ever has before, and in no time at all you find yourself swept up into an obsession unlike any you've ever known.

You do not belong here. You never will. Yet the more you let him in, the more you take and demand from each other, the more you begin to feel things you've never thought yourself capable of feeling, you begin to realize something—

He doesn't belong here either.

[prismatoxic]

hi everyone :3

[prismatoxic]

you guys hear something? i swear i just heard--

OH FUCK WHERE DID YOU COME FROM

[prismatoxic]

oh shit it's this thing again

fic summary, as a refresher:

Things don't go as planned during the final confrontation with the Winged Lion, and Laios loses his identity, trapped in the body and mind of an animal. When he emerges from the dungeon after months, barely humanoid and mentally feral, it's Chilchuck who finds him and is tasked with helping Laios fix what's been broken. Taking back his identity is only half of the puzzle, though. Laios is hardly fit for the responsibility he's soon saddled with, yet there are no other options; his friends will do what they can to ease the burden, but ultimately, Laios needs to somehow rise to the challenge. His intense emotional attachment to Chilchuck overrides all else, but turning a beast back into a man is a bigger task than Chilchuck has ever tackled before, and he's not sure he can pull it off.

[prismatoxic]

Rating: M Category: M/M Relationships: Wildlight (BOTW Link/TP Link), Revalink, Midlink Additional Tags: Selectively Mute Link (Legend of Zelda), Trans Male Link (Legend of Zelda), both of those are for wild. twilight is a cis chatterbox, Past Revalink, Past Midlink, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn

Nothing could’ve prepared Link for how devastating regaining his lost memories would be. When grief threatens to break him, potentially dooming Hyrule to Calamity Ganon's wrath, he's sent to request aid from the long-forgotten Goddess of Courage. His plea is heard, and he is granted assistance in the form of a partner: a hero from the age of myth, brought back to life and eager to help. Maybe a little too eager. It's strange how willing he is to throw himself into this, to be renamed and repurposed for the sake of a world so unfamiliar to him. At least having a traveling companion helps distract Link from all that he’s lost. What he doesn't realize is that the sentiment goes both ways—Twilight is running from the past just as much as he is.

hi i started um. a chapterfic. for wildlight. it's gonna be Intense™

not tagging the revalink/midlink for this post but they're central story components. just... in the past

[prismatoxic]

are you guys ready for... the hike :3c

THIS IS NOT AN APRIL FOOL'S JOKE I PROMISE. I JUST HAVE BAD TIMING AND CANNOT WAIT FOR VALIDATION

anyway please enjoy. it goes some places

[prismatoxic]

hello naughty children it's time to keep the promises

[prismatoxic]

chapter 2 snippet. i am enjoying myself

"I already took care of one of the Divine Beasts before you showed up," Link explains after swallowing a mouthful of his own food. "The next one we're going after is the one in the Gerudo Desert." Twilight doesn't immediately respond, and Link glances over at him again to see him looking somewhat stunned. Once their eyes meet, however, he seems to get over it. "The desert where I'm from was a monster-infested ghost town. Is yours actually inhabited?" "The Gerudo live there," Link says, trying to avoid sounding like he thought that was a stupid question. Why would a past version of the Gerudo Desert be a ghost town? There's an entire race of people out there, enough to have been granted the right to pilot one of the Divine Beasts. Where were they in Twilight's time? Link can't remember anything about the Gerudo, but what he's gathered from the ones he's passed on the road is that they're strictly suited for the desert. Twilight makes a thoughtful sound, nibbling a chunk of meat. "I've only ever met one of those, and it was Ganondorf." Link pauses with his skewer lifted halfway to his mouth. That's not a name he knows, but the way Twilight says it implies he should. "Ganondorf?" "You know, Ganon," Twilight says, perfectly casual, gesturing loosely with his free hand. "From what I understood, he was Ganondorf as a man, but when we fought he did turn into a giant pig-beast, and that was Ganon." He tilts his head, curious. "You know him too, don't you? From what you've said, I guess Calamity Ganon is just what happened when he lost his man half." Link stares, utterly bewildered. The cloud of Malice surrounding the castle, the thing Zelda has given her all to keep trapped there, the malevolent entity that killed thousands—killed Revali—was once a man? "I thought all Gerudo were women," he says, for lack of anything better to say. "I heard it's rare," Twilight says with a shrug.

[prismatoxic]

hiiiiii :3

we're getting somewhere.......................

summary again, since it's been a bit since i posted an update:

When home no longer feels like home, Chilchuck makes the tough decision to move north to escape memories he'd rather leave behind. Though once largely made up of tall-men, there are towns and cities on the northern continent that have opened their doors to races of all kinds, and that seems like the easiest sort of place to try and make a new life. There's even a branch of a tailoring company Chilchuck admires that might be willing to hire him. Except life outside of a strictly half-foot community is hardly as idyllic as it seems. Everything is too large, and too loud, and getting a good job requires things he couldn't get back home. Then an opportunity falls into Chilchuck's lap - an enthusiastic amateur wildlife photographer offers to pay him for his assistance in capturing pictures of the monsters roaming the countryside. It sounds like a lousy job, but unfortunately, the idea is less bruising to his ego than the other options he has. There's no telling if this new life will be sustainable. One thing's for certain, though: Chilchuck is lonely, and his eccentric new employer is all too eager to be his friend.

this is a modern fantasy au where the world is the same, but modern (and all the changes i feel that would cause). that means all the races are still here, magic is still a thing, and obviously, monsters are present.

it's also heading towards smut/kink territory but has not arrived yet. please don't be surprised when that happens :'3

[prismatoxic]

in no small part thanks to the gorgeous fanart i got and the many brainworms my friends have given me, i present to you: CHAPTER 5

things get... a little gay