#with a tiny bit of a clean slate

[drabblesandimagines]

Scoot On Over

Leon Kennedy x female reader, established relationship, fluff with a tiny bit of suggestive spice at the end

Leon threw himself down onto the mattress with a relieved sigh – a cliché, but there was nothing like sleeping in your own bed after being away. It had been a mixture of questionable motel beds, a couple of nights in the backseat of the car, another night of no sleep at all and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion, running on adrenaline until he made it back home to you that evening.

He rubs his cheek against your pillow, inhaling the scent of your perfume and allows himself to close his eyes. Now, he just needs you in his arms for a perfect’s night sleep…

--

“Leon?”

Nothing – again. You’d worry he had stopped breathing entirely if he wasn’t letting out soft snores from where his face was pressed against your pillow. He’d been away on a mission for two long weeks and had arrived home early evening, duffel bag in hand, covered in fading bruises, kisses and wandering hands tinged with weariness despite his obvious excitement to be back home with you.

You made small talk as you’d made a light dinner – get him fed and then you could both have an early night. He didn’t like to talk much about his missions had entailed – he wanted to keep the two things as separate in his brain as he could – but he knew if he needed to talk about something, you’d be there and that was enough.

You’d sent him up to bed first whilst you finished up in the kitchen – you liked to start off each morning with a clean slate in there and it would only take you ten minutes tops to sort, you’d assured him, a cheeky pat to his backside as you encouraged him up the stairs.

He’d changed into a pair of plaid PJ bottoms and a plain white tee, so he must’ve brushed his teeth and then just… collapsed? You place a hand on the broad expanse of his back, giving him a light shake. “Sweetheart?”

The problem is, Leon is broad and tall and currently, somehow, taking up the whole of your double bed. You can’t even see a reasonable space you could try and curl up into against his side and be remotely comfortable, the way his limbs are spread out like a starfish.

“Leon,” you place another hand on his back and give a more vigorous shake. “I just need you to scooch on up a bit, sweetheart.”

Nothing.

You change tact and try and lift an arm, maybe you can get him to roll with a little encouragement, or he’ll wake up? Surely as an agent he’s a light sleeper anyway, what if you were an enemy or any sort of threat?

His arm is deadweight, all muscle - even if you try and lift it with both hands, embarrassingly, you can’t get it even an inch or so off the mattress.

You try and push it inwards so it’ll sit tight against his body, but it just won’t move.

“Leon?” You grab hold of his shoulder and shake it with all of your strength.

“Yeah, baby?” He mumbles.

A sign of life – hallelujah. “Can you move along a bit for me?”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t move.

“Just need you to scooch up a bit for me, handsome.” “Mm-hm…” And he snuggles his face further into your pillow, an adorable smile on his face as he does.

With a sigh, you try and wedge yourself into the space in defeat – maybe he’ll subconsciously feel you and lift his arm up for a cuddle, and then you’d be able to fit a little more comfortably? He did prefer to sleep with an arm wrapped around you, keeping you pressed close up against him, legs tangled together.

After trying out various positions in the hopes of coaxing him into a spoon, a few more vigorous shakes and, finally, a more than playful smack to his backside that achieved no more than a mumble – not proud of that one, but needs must - you admit defeat, kneel down beside the bed and stare at his slumbering face in thought.

He must be utterly exhausted and, despite the frustration of not being able to cuddle up against him after so many nights apart, it is flattering, you suppose, that he must feel safe within your company to allow himself to relax so completely and be out like a literal light.

You lean down to pick up his neglected pillow and press a kiss to his forehead, and grab the throw from the end of the bed – looks like it’s a night on the couch.

--

Leon wakes up slowly as light filters in through the curtains. His body had been aching from his time away, but it seems a night in his bed has set him right. He stretches his arms out, expecting for a hand to brush up against your warmth but is dismayed when he finds the bed empty.

He turns and sits up, cautiously, rubbing the back of his head with a loud yawn and takes in his surroundings, wondering if you’ve just nipped to the en-suite, but the door to it is ever so slightly ajar.

Your phone is plugged in on the bedside table, charging, which is odd – although not glued to the thing, it's strange for you not to have taken it with you if you’d gone downstairs to make breakfast…

There’s a sickening feeling in his stomach when he realizes he doesn’t remember you coming to bed at all, that he had been waiting for you to come join him and…

Hazy memories of you calling out to him?

Fuck.

He jumps up to his feet, dashes out the bedroom and takes the stairs down two at a time, trying to think. He’d left his gun in his duffel bag, hadn’t even taken it up with him, left it by the door when he arrived home last night. Had he been drugged? He had felt exhausted, but he’d put that down to the poor sleep over the last while. Could someone have followed him home last night, drugged him somehow, a tranquilizer, waited for him to be out for the count to swoop in and…?

His heart stops as he sees you lying on your side on the couch, the throw from the bed now twisted around your legs, arms wrapped around his pillow.

Safe and sound, and fast asleep.

He exhales, calming himself for a moment with a chuckle, before kneeling down besides you and tilting his head, awkwardly, so he can kiss you up the lips.

The sensation is enough for you to stir, blinking up at him with a dozy smile.

“Morning.”

“I don’t recall us having a fight last night, sweetheart.” He grins at his joke, but it’s one that falls flat.

“A fight?” You repeat, confused.

“You know, when couples fight, one of them ends up sleeping on the couch...”

“Oh, yeah,” you yawn, sitting up with the slightest wince. “You wouldn’t let me in the bed.”

“Huh?”

“When I came up to bed you were dead to the world, literally star-fished. I tried to get you to scoot up a little so I could get in but it was impossible, so I slept down here.”

“Seriously?”

“Mm-hm, you must’ve been exhausted.” You nod, shuffling around to place your feet flat on the ground. “Lemme make us some coffee… Ow!” You hiss as you stand, placing a hand on the small of your back.

Leon is quick to his feet, eyes wide in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m okay, it’s just my back,” you rub at the sore spot, the muscles feeling tender. It had been fine last night… “Maybe the couch isn’t the best for sleeping on.”

 You take another step forward, intent on heading to the kitchen, but there’s no hiding the wince from Leon’s gaze. “Oh, baby…”

“It’ll be fine, I just need to walk it off.”

“Uh-uh, come on,” and those muscular arms that were so impossible to move last night are suddenly scooping you up and holding you against his chest as he heads back towards the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s still early and a couple of hours on a proper, supportive mattress might work wonders.”

You wrap your arms around his neck in turn. “Oh, I know your game, Kennedy.”

“And what’s that?” He replies, nonchalantly as he begins to ascend the stairs, careful not to knock your legs against the banister.

“The other activity you like to conduct in bed, the one that’s not sleeping? I just…” You tense in his arms, looking a little hesitant. “I don’t know if my back’s gonna play ball...”

Leon reaches the top of the landing and smirks, “Trust me - stretches work wonders for back pain, sweetheart.”

He strides into the bedroom and kicks the door closed with his foot.

It doesn’t open again until late afternoon. -- AN: Inspired by my boyfriend actually star-fishing me outta the bed and me having to sleep on the couch x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Comments, reblogs and likes make my whole day x

[zzeraphilm]

hwyl i chi

transl: goodbye to you Aizawa Shota x GN!Reader (A) words: 588 short breakup one shot - mainly a self indulgent outlet for myself

They had a deeply rooted seed of pure spite that germinated a sprout, that punched through their heart and bloomed a tiny little rose bud waiting to shine. 

Maybe a few days would give it time to fully bloom, then Y/N would have the desire to pluck its stem off from the root and bask in its freshly grown glory. Of course, it doesn’t take a mere day to grow a beautiful rose. But it might as well been. 

‘I don’t think I want a relationship anymore.’ Shota Aizawa had always lacked the sentimental maturity for his age. He could provide support and care for his students, but for those around him in his personal life. They were not privy to that side of the pro-hero. 

To beg and plead was for the guilty, Y/N did not feel a single drop of guilt for the scorn they were shooting towards Aizawa. Despite his constant indifference in facial expressions, not a single shed of remorse even found its way onto his face. He still had the same deadpan expression that his co-workers received, as if Y/N had committed an act of pure deviousness that he had to clean up. 

‘Work’s too much. I can’t put my focus on you.’ The air was thick with anticipation, no other words were exchanged yet the slate had already been cleared. Aizawa and Y/N had not spoken properly in nearly half a year, on occasion they would receive three text messages maximum a week from the pro-hero. Ranging from late response excuses to banal work updates that made no sense to Y/N. Week by week, missed call after missed call, Y/N had forgotten what Aizawa really looked like, old photographs were outdated by a few years now. They couldn't pinpoint where in their time together did they become so disconnected with one another's lives. But Y/N knew the cruelty of the pro-hero scene all too well. It wasn't a throwaway excuse that he could use in passing to bring this story to an end. With an unsteady voice, Y/N took the last few bits of heroism within to respond. 

‘You are incredibly, unfair.’ Each syllable was spoken with a sharp stab aimed towards the Erasure hero. There was no need to use their quirk or any other power to assert their frustrations. This was enough. ‘You have disrespected me, for too long. You want us to be over, so be it then. Bye.’ 

As sharp as their words Y/N spun around before Aizawa could speak. He wanted it to be over on his accords, where there was closure and he would walk away without a guilty conscious, knowing that Y/N and him could mutually agree to end things. 

The other was not the same, closure was far from Y/N’s desired choice. In no world would they allow a person who disrespects them to walk away without a guilty conscious, with the delusion that they were sensible and truthful. In reality, Y/N provided the pro-hero with a better option. Self-analysis, self-reflection and most importantly, a brutal blunt cut. Like snipping the stem off a half bloomed rose, the blunt shears that have seen the beheading of multiple flowers and fruits, adds another to its long list of victims. Another day, another flower to be removed. To be placed somewhere else, where the sunlight can shine a spotlight on its petals, illuminating the beauty of its nature somewhere where someone else could value it.

[jhuzen]

*pops open another beer 🍺*

helloooooo can u pls give me some sugar baby dottore hcs??? i am currently bent on him i need u to quench this thirst

the love in hatred [m.reader]

hope i’m not too late in quenching your thirst beer anon hsjsjdsj. i was busy with some uni things and only got to it now. hope you don’t mind me adding in a little spice in the dynamic ;D and i’m sure you like it nsfw so there are some little sprinkles of it lmao.

𖦹 modern au (but it’s not heavily implied), suggestive themes (of course), a little bit of dark themes, possessive dottore but he hates you at first lol, nsfw terms, reader is rich rich.

Imagine…

Sugar Baby Dottore who absolutely despises you and every fiber of your very being. You were the antithesis of his existence, absolute respite encompassed you while he was the unyielding scholar. He pursued knowledge until the very edge of Teyvat, while you sat back and relaxed, stopping because you ‘know your limits’. You’re a coward in his eyes, that’s what. But you’re a coward that can make a lot of money. And a coward that he can coerce into giving him financial aid in his experiments because he doesn’t want to lower his pride to ask Pantalone instead.

Sugar Baby Dottore who was welcomed by the not-so-cowardly you when he came to strike up a deal with you. No longer were you that chipper easygoing lad that he despised, but an incredibly emotionally constipated man that can barely work your facial muscles into a fake smile. It almost felt like getting bit back in the ass by the way you threw him off the loop. He no longer knew you the same way you no longer knew him. It’s a clean slate. But he still hates you.

Sugar Baby Dottore who was genuinely surprised that you didn’t need a lot of convincing. That you were willing to give him everything as long as he abides by certain rules and requests of yours. He hates it (and again, you), but he’d rather cut his throat than ask Pantalone for even a tiny pouch of mora. And while he’s relentless in his pursuit of knowledge, the man knows even the mora in his pockets have limits.

Sugar Baby Dottore who was relatively glad that you never once placed him under a tight budget. You were generous with him and maybe he sort of liked that all he had to do was spread his legs and tempt you into a good time. No attachment. As soon as the fun (for you at least) ends, Dottore wakes up with an allowance that any Northland Bank branch could only gawk at. It was ridiculously heavy.

Sugar Baby Dottore who only ever resorted to seducing you when he needs something at this very instant and his little impatient mind couldn’t bare you entertaining your big shot clients first. You promised you’d give him everything if he fucked you dry, right? Often times, when his impatience strikes, he’s already grabbing at the lapels of your pristine suit, tugging you away from your now confused clients while you and him screw in the empty room right next to your study. After milking you dry, he already has his greedy little palm out, expecting you to just drop your entire leather wallet on him (he’s hoarded so much of your wallets already).

Sugar Baby Dottore who at first finds your date nights annoying but necessary (to butter you up into buying him new laboratory apparatuses) — you’re so difficult to talk to! Unlike your days in youth when you would engage him with a small smile, you and your annoying stone face only prompted him to want to watch bacteria cultures grow in a petri dish. But the moment you start opening about your work the more he feels relatively intrigued.

Sugar Baby Dottore who’s slowly starting to cherish the little knickknacks you give him. He never really batted an eye to the souvenirs you’d bring home to him from your international trips. In fact, he used to cherish the times you were away. He still receives cash and he doesn’t have to fuck you. Anyway, he used to just ignore them and opted to only take interest in the money you give him for his lab equipment, but it’s recently that he’s staring more and more at the taxidermies of certain native species you gave him. And maybe some of those magnet things from each nation… if one looked behind his wheeled whiteboard, they could see some of the ones you brought home.

Sugar Baby Dottore who starts to get more conscious of how he looks around you and starts taking effort in looking good for you. Don’t get him wrong, he knows he looks good, it’s partly why you agreed immediately in financially supporting him. For his looks and his body. But there was something refreshing in making a conscious effort of looking even more alluring — absolutely loving the way your usually stern eyes just digging into his form.

Sugar Baby Dottore who’s slowly becoming addicted to your scent. Your imported colognes that he used to gag at, he’s now spraying into his suit before he heads to the laboratory, absolutely loving the way when your eyes twinkle in recognition at his new scent whenever he passes by you to get his daily allowance of a hundred thousand mora (how are you not broke yet, no one knows).

Sugar Baby Dottore who’s slowly feeling the grips of insanity when he realizes that his hatred for you is dissipating into nothingness. When he’s slowly looking forward to your cock shoved up inside him more and more. He hates that within the few months that you and him made that deal, he’s becoming more and more enamored to the mornings where he can still see you beside him, your big sturdy back facing him with all the scratch marks and love bites he made on you the night prior.

Sugar Baby Dottore who becomes far more possessive. Suddenly, the tables have turned. He thought he’d always have the upper hand, he could charm you with his body and there’s mora in his pocket in an instant. But somehow it’s him that gets hungrier and hungrier for you — he went on an all time high the one time you dropped by his laboratory to talk to him about something he doesn’t remember anymore. He likes the attention you’re giving him and archons, he wants you to have him as your sole object of affection. This man will go feral if you made external arrangements in your business trips.

Sugar Baby Dottore who’s becoming clingy to you. He can’t leave you alone for a second. His addiction of you festering within him. Suddenly, it’s not just about the mora that you’re giving him anymore. It’s suddenly turning into a matter of your loyalty to him, that one day you’ll make him your pretty wife, financially secured with his own laboratory in your mansion, leaving you no room for bargains while he stuffs himself with a mouthful of your delicious cock.

Oh no! Seems like your pretty little doctor has moved on the next step, already planning your future with him and only him! Best of luck to you~

May you kiss your bachelor days goodbye now, because he’s never letting go of you.

Oh no! Seems like your pretty little doctor has moved on the next step, already planning your future with him and only him! Best of luck to you~

Oh no! It seems like your pretty little doctor has moved onto the next step, already planning your future with him and only him! Best of luck to you~

Oh no! Seems like your pretty little doctor has moved on the next step, already planning your future with him and only him! Best of luck to you~

[breannasfluff]

Broken Trust

Whumptober: Setbacks Whump Rating: 0.5/5

Wild sits away from the camp, fabric clutched in his hands. He’s staring at it without really seeing it. Instead, the previous situation replays in his head.

Wind, going through his slate and pulling out his vai outfit without asking. Putting it on and waltzing around, then getting into a wrestling match with Warriors. Tearing the delicate silk and grinding dirt into the fabric.

The champion gave the group access to his slate as a show of faith. If something happened to him and they needed to get food or potions, he wanted them to have the option.

What Wind did? Taking his belongings without asking? Ruining them, even on accident? The trust he’d given the group was broken.

Wild accepted his outfit back with barely a word, leaving the camp. Now he’s settled on a rock with a ruined outfit.

The crunch of leaves has him flicking his ears back.

“Just me,” Hyrule calls. Then he joins Wild’s side, sitting on a slightly lower rock. “I’m sorry about your outfit.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s clear it's important to you.” When the champion doesn’t answer, Hyrule prods further. “Mind telling me about it?”

With a sigh, Wild holds up the torn fabric. “It’s an outfit to get into Gerudo Town. They don’t allow men but if you dress like this…”

“Do you mind? Wearing girl’s clothes?”

He shakes his head. “I know it’s weird but—no. It’s nice to be a vai in town. No one minds my scars or cares that I’m the hero. The fabric is soft and it doesn’t bother me when I wear it. Even outside Gerudo Town, I like to put it on when the other outfits bother me.”

“It’s not weird.” Hyrule leans against Wild’s knee, stoking his fingers over a clean part of the fabric. “It’s beautiful. I see why you like wearing it.”

“Thanks.”

Hyrule continues to stroke the fabric and Wild finally hands it to him to look at. “Wind shouldn’t have gone through your slate without permission.”

“Well, it won’t be a problem now.” Wild can’t help the sharp bite to his words. At Hyrule’s questioning look, he sighs. “I locked the slate again. I know it’s best for the team but I just—”

“Hey.” A hand rests on his arm with a soft squeeze. “You are within your rights to do what you want, Wild. It’s your stuff. This is a setback, but it doesn’t have to be the end of everything. Let us work on earning your trust back, okay?”

Wild nods, a little of his misery lessoning.

“Mind if I keep this for a bit?” Hyrule holds up the vai outfit. “I think I might be able to clean some of the stains.”

“Sure. If I have to, I’ll buy a new one the next time I can visit Gerudo Town.” However long that may be.

Hyrule hums, but doesn’t leave. The two sit in silence, enjoying the forest and companionship.

Two weeks later, Hyrule gives Wild the vai outfit back. The stains are gone and the tears are mended with tiny stitches. The champion clutches the outfit to his chest and pulls Hyrule into a hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Later, he gives Hyrule access to the slate. He’s earned it.

[shattteredvisage]

You are Connor Roy, and you are the only child of one of the most powerful men in the country. Your father eclipses everything in your life, and you are rarely denied anything. Anything that is, but his time. There are nannies for that after all. You are raised to believe that the business he is building before your very eyes is your birthright. You're a little fidgety, true - a little bit soft. Your mother will sometimes rest her forehead on yours and call you a dreamer. You think she means it as a good thing, so you aren't sure why she says it so sadly.

You are Connor Roy and when you're 10 years old, your mother decides that she's had enough of everything you've ever known. She takes you with her to find "something different, something real." She calls it the adventure of a lifetime, but the faraway look in her eyes when she grasps your shoulders like a lifeline makes your stomach turn. So what does your old man do to get you back? What does he do with all that power his friends are always reminding you of? Absolutely nothing. With every day you spend without him, the reality of who your father is seeps into your bones and you feel real fear for the first time in your life. The reality is that being soft will not be tolerated and that family is only what Logan Roy says it is. The reality is that you are weak, and your father would never fight for a weak boy.

You are Connor Roy and when you're 13 your mother is carted away to a place upstate. No one asks if you'd like to visit her, but your father scoops you up and tries to sit you on his knee the way he did when you were younger. You're much too big for that now though, awkwardly sliding off and sitting next to him instead. She's a psycho he says. She put you in danger he says. Part of you is furious. Part of you is seething at him for saying that, for abandoning you, but mostly you feel relief. For the first time in three years you have more than enough food to eat and are not constantly worried that the alimony check will be spent on booze and pills. Your father, for all his faults, is sturdy and secure. He's your old man and he came back and this time he'll be all the strength you need.

You are a twenty year-old Connor Roy and you are peering into the eyes of your replacement. They're dark, not like yours, but the tufts of hair peaking out from the blanket that swaddles him remind you of your own. You hold him in your arms and he peers up at you, a soulful gaze that sucks you in until you're completely lost. Spellbound, you pull him a little tighter and sink into the nearest chair. You should hate him, you know, but the idea of hating someone so small makes you sick. In those eyes you can see the same promise your father probably sees; This one doesn't have a crazy mother in the middle of nowhere, this one is a clean slate, this one can be strong when all you can be is weak. Holding that newborn in your arms you resolve not to fight as your birthright is snatched by a tiny thief - to instead cling to this new, better family your father is building and to build them up in return. After all, family is what Logan Roy says it is.

You are Connor Roy and you do what you can. You stay present, stick around when you could be off making something of yourself. You give yourself to them in little ways, in ways you wish Logan had given himself to you. You take your little brothers on fishing trips, you let your baby sister climb on top of your back and dig her heels into your kidneys as you crawl on the hardwood. But part of you will always want to be as far from your father and his overbearing presence as you can. The houses you have built are always rural, always quiet and lonely, everything that Logan Roy isn't. You don't want to think about why that is. When you aren't there you know he pits them against each other, you know that they're starting to claw the weakness out of each other. The love you offer them is met with derisive snorts and rolled eyes - they become more like your father than you could ever dream to be. You're left behind, abandoned again, deluded and desperate in thinking that someone - anyone - could love you the way you need.

[archie-sunshine]

The Inbox is Open

Hello all!!! sooooo i got a tiny bit anxious and i deleted like half the inbox bc i felt i needed a clean slate (a little late but we'll call it an inbox purge anyhow)

That said, the inbox is back open for requests!! currently i'm interested in getting back to drawing knightformers, and as always a question about my ocs is always welcome, however, feel free to request or ask whatever youd like.

[hyperfixatedfandomer]

I know you by heart (Amnesia AU)

Ok y’all remember the chaotic blorbo thought? My brain suddenly expanded and I found a way to make it even more heart-wrenching.

.

Imagine if Quaritch, after trying to get away on his ikran at the end of the movie, passed out and ended up on some island million miles away from the Metkayina with amnesia? All of his (human and recom) memories are gone so now he is, by all means, a clean slate.

He is found by a different tribe, they see that he is frankly confused as well as terrified, and let him in out of pity. They teach him their ways and slowly, Miles creates something of a new life amongst the Na’vi.

One word and image that keeps popping up in his head almost every day though, is that of a spider. Arachnids do not exist on Pandora, but he presumed it was a memory he had when he was an avatar. He feels like it’s important and weaves the animal into his jewellery as well as engraves it on his weapons.

But the rest of the memories do not come back, and it wrecks him to his core because he can feel that there was something, someone important. So important that his heart feels like it’s bleeding without them, like a big chunk of it was ripped away and no matter how much Miles tries to just live on, he can’t let go but feel this agonising emptiness.

Until, a couple months later, Metkayina reach the Island where Quartich’s tribe resides because its leader Tonowari and his right hand Jake are uniting the reef clans against the sky people. The Olo’teykan of Miles’s tribe filess them in on their tribe and mentions the mysterious dream walker who had their memories erased and began their life anew here. The leader notes that this avatar is a warrior like no other, despite the fact that they cannot remember where they’ve learned to fight the way they did and at the end of said introduction, Quaritch is introduced, with a new look and name.

Jake is bamboozled, Tonowari is bamboozled and so is the strange sky boy who stands beside them.

Miles’s heart lurched violently at the sight of him, and the man doesn’t even notice how tears begin falling down his cheeks. Seeing his face alone is akin to finding a beautiful oasis in the middle of a scorching, dead desert. The Na’vi feels like this boy is the piece he’s been missing, the piece he desperately needs back in his arms, but he freezes as he watches him take a step back with an alarmed expression.

Jake is arguing with the Olo’teykan as he doesn’t believe that Quaritch could have amnesia all while Tonowari, while believing the claims, is still trying hard to dissuade himself from closing his hands around the recom’s throat. Miles payes them no mind however, as he, almost instinctively gets on one knee to be on eye level with the boy and smiles warmly at him.

“ Hey there, kid” he addressed him in na’vi, the words feeling just right on his tongue for some reason, but the stranger’s eyes widened at his sentence.

“…y-you can speak Na’vi?”

“It’s the only way I can speak” he shrugged.

“…What was your name again?” He asked timidly.

“ Iam. What is yours?” Recom’s ears leaned forward, afraid he’d miss it if he didn’t strain his hearing.

“… my name is Spider…”

Iam’s eyes widened as something deep in his soul shifted and he gasped. There was no doubt about it, he was that missing piece, a piece the man couldn’t afford to loose. It didn’t matter that he now had a new life. He’ll split himself appart if it means staying with this human.

He needed him.

“…I know you, don’t I?”

A tiny nod followed.

“…Would you like to remind me?”

The kid shook his head.

…

“…Would you maybe like to start over then?” He didn’t mean to, but the question came out as a desperate plea as he tilted his head. “Please?”

Spider’s eyes finally met Iam’s, and he could feel the bits and pieces of the memories he had lost slowly coming back. The blonde’s distant laughter echoed in his ears and couldn’t wait to hear it again.

“…sure. Let’s start over.”

.

.

.

Yeah, this is the idea. I may expand on it with headcannons soon who knows 🤔

[cafecourage]

Pinky Isn't Suffering

Chapter 3

Previous chapter - Next Chapter

Reminder these chapters happen between Enno cant get their crap together on @luimagines

The good luck that they had since the battle kept up it seemed. Of course Wild, Sky, and Warriors haven’t turned back to normal yet, however, they were still at Lon Lon Ranch and safe. Which is all that Twilight could ask for, honestly.

Even if Wild was still driving him and Pinky crazy, for such a tiny body, he is very hyperactive and destructive. Twilight was beginning to feel the consequences of always trying to keep up with the child, making sure he stayed safe from harm, thus taking the hits himself.

It was fine though. Nothing he wasn’t used to.

During lunch, however, disaster strikes once more. 

It started out as a slow lunch break with Malon, Time and Pinky. Wild was playing with some of Malon’s old toys, wearing Time’s old clothing.

They were just chatting and catching up a bit. Twilight was trying to pay attention to the conversation, honestly. He really was. But Wild kept edging towards a bookshelf nearby eyeing something up top. 

Twilight knew that look. The kid wanted something and knowing Wild, he would get it.

“Wild.” Twilight gave him a warning but the kid had the nerve to look over at his mentor, then immediately started to climb up the shelves. 

“Wild no!” He was quick to act, taking the kid off of the selves.

First, the bookshelves started to wobble. Then Wild fell off and the bookshelves started to fall forward.

Twilight pulled the cub under him bracing for the impact.

“Wild!!” Pinky’s calls were voided out by the pain that was shooting through from his back, neck and head. The weight on him lessened as Time and Malon helped both of them out and put the bookshelf back upright. Once Twilight knew it was safe, he and Pinky got Wild out first.

When the shelf was finally off of the Rancher, Time was by his side helping him stead himself. “How are you feeling, Pup?”

“I’m fine.” He lied, his back and head was killing him. Twilight was tired. There was a small voice in the back of his head that was telling him just to curl up around his cub and make sure his ‘child’ was fine. It was a need that he could only barely suppress. 

Before Twilight could even help Time and Malon clean up the mess, a hand grabbed his forearm. 

“Oh hell no.” Pinky was looking up at him angrily. “You, sir, are resting.” Twi couldn’t even protest as he lets her just lead him into the kitchen. “Sit.”

Twilight took the place next to Wild. The small hero was visibly shaken and looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Are you ok cub?” Twilight pulled the child close as Wild threw himself on Twilight, finally crying.

“I sowwy.” His speech was slurred through his sobbing. 

Placing Wild on his lap, he let the kid cry it out. “It’s not your fault.” Twilight started drawing circles on the smaller back to calm him down. It was something he learned from Collin. It puts the child to sleep in an instant.

Pinky came back with the first aid kit. “Oh how cute.”

Twilight almost rolls his eyes. “Cute but a gremlin.”

“You love him.” Well there was no arguing that, but he did want to correct her. He loved Wild, his brother in arms. But he loved her more. “Hold still” Pinky came behind Twilight and started to search for bumps or bruises. “It was a nasty crash.”

Twilight just hummed as her fingers through his hair was a pleasant feeling. 

His body was growing heavy as it started to relax.

Deeper.

And deeper.

Then finally he fell asleep.

Not aware that Pinky had taken photos of them two with her own mini slate, knowing that this opportunity wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

[the-ace-with-spades]

(sometimes I feel) like a monkey pilot fic background bits (heavier on hangster this time), because I wanna write it, I'm having feelings about it, but it isn't coming along

Also, it recently passed 200 bookmarks and my little trans gay heart is so happy 🥹

---- When Jake and Bradley had met for the first time (back when Bradley was pre-transition), they were the opposite of each other's types. They haven't grown into the people they are as the fic begins, personality and body-wise, either, being like 23-24 — Jake was lean but scrawny, had about half of his today's confidence and sass and Bradley was still reeling with compacted anger/sadness and fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude that carried him through college and the basketball scholarship.

---- Bradley up until that point dated only girls and although he was kinda attracted to guys, he identified as a lesbian, and gave Jake a chance on a whim — mostly he thought Jake was a big dork and wasn't making him feel less like a lot of guys did. He felt like Jake didn't categorize him by 'female' standards much and that helped enormously too. Nat might or not have taken pity on Jake and talked to Bradley to emphasize that Jake is just a big dork that grows on you...

---- Jake'd only dated the next-door neighbor type of girls, very feminine and although on the playful side, always softer and more shy girls, usually curvy and tiny in comparison to him. He always imagined himself as a more stereotypical husband, with a housewife and kids waiting at home for him (very similar to the way his own parents were — his ma helped around on the farm, but she was primarily responsible for raising children until they grew enough, and his dad although present, would follow her lead when it comes to childrearing). But there was just something about Bradley, in all the two inches taller, semi-professional basketball player body and the cheeky quips glory and the way he felt challenged whenever they spoke, the way he wanted the attention to never end. Obviously, he found out pretty soon that Bradley was a dork and a softie and just felt even more endeared.

---- The above is also something that causes some problems down the lane — Jake always thought they were each other's 'special ones', that despite being totally different from what either of them would imagine in a partner, somehow they ended just being perfect for each other. He has this whole thing in his head where they're each other's 'exception to the rule' and obviously Bradley still is his exception (because he's a guy and Jake's never been with a guy) but now he isn't Bradley's. It's hard for him to communicate this properly and since Bradley is also very in his mind about Jake wanting him despite being a guy, it causes problems.

---- Their first date (which I'll write eventually) was a stroll at the farmer's market and eating freshly made with produce they bought there breakfast in the bed of Jake's truck. It kinda won both of them on each other and they were goners since.

---- They both dated in the five years of being broken-up. Bradley dated both guys and girls, with various results (some of his dates were trans guy chasers, some were just not clicking) and Jake dated a couple of girls of his previous type (mostly matchmade by his ma...) and a couple more tomboy-ish, sporty girls (mostly on Javy's desperate attempts to get him to move on), but it had never felt the same for either of them.

---- I do also want to emphasize that Bradley's mental state when he and Jake broke up was poor, but not in a very visible way. He's really good at compartmentalizing and since the whole Mav fiasco, also hyper-independent, and given his then-current life, he really didn't see any options that would keep everyone happy — in his mind, he didn't really have a choice but to leave and try to live as a woman once again, but with a clean slate (for both him and Jake) and no expectations but those that the Navy set for him. For him, in the military, it was really easy to lose identity (and also gender as part of identity) — he was an officer, naval aviator, sailor first, woman second, and it was the last line of comfort he had.

---- Jake kinda had a feeling something was off since he proposed and got rejected, but he didn't know how to address it because it wasn't very precise and almost felt as if he was making it up from his own insecurities (because his proposal, which he thought was just a formality, got rejected and now he felt confused and unsettled about how well they really knew each other, even if he didn't doubt they loved each other). Only when Bradley told him they needed to break up and that he was leaving for the Virginia base in half an hour, packed to go, never even having mentioned planning a transfer in the past months, he realized how bad it actually had been.

---- Jake did realize back then that Bradley (still pre-transition) had a lot of insecurities regarding his perception and body, he just kinda misunderstood the assignment and thought it came from the opposite reasons than in reality — that pre-transition Bradley was the most comfortable in the tomboy-ish, cocky image but didn't feel beautiful in typical 'female' standards and such, rather that he, you know, didn't want to feel pretty by 'female' standards at all. The only thing that helped Bradley feel good about

---- Like in most of my fics, I think Mav and Bradley can cook pretty well, mostly due to the headcanoned nature of their upbringings. Mav (who is part Italian in my mind, always), had often helped his mamma cook and then when she passed away, would often be responsible for meal preps as one of the oldest kids in his group homes. He's also used cooking as a way of taking care of the people he loves - Goose would've starved to death if Mav hadn't cooked for the both of them the first year they'd known each other, Carole has a similar upbringing as Mav but doesn't like cooking much, Ice can kinda cook (he can do anything if he tries hard enough) but doesn't like it. And Bradley would often help with cooking as a kid and then had to learn fast when he went to college and didn't have the money or means to not cook. He's also learned to use it as a form of love from Mav, with time.

---- I also think that a major thing about is how being someone's support can set both Mav and Bradley into override mode against all their fears and insecurities. I think Mav overcame a lot of his doubts when he had to take care of Bradley (the idea that he's not made for family, the idea he can only ruin relationships and cause harm to his loved ones, the idea he can be loved unconditionally with reciprocation, etc.) There was a deleted scene (that maybe will come back, I feel a bit weird about it b/c it's really cliche) where Bradley is pretty early in the transition process and where for the first time, he's not afraid to be clocked as trans by a stranger, and this all happens when he's helping another trans person in an icky situation during one of the trans support group meetings.

---- Bradley doesn't come out to anyone in their family — every single time someone found he's transitioning/transitioned, it was from Ice. This is how he preferred it, it started with Slider and Ice's sister (which is also another deleted scene I might post here at some point), and then to take some of the emotional stress, Mav and Ice agreed they could do the initial explanations/coming outs for him. Thing is, Mav always doesn't know how to begin and how to explain stuff without overexplaining it, so it's usually Ice who would actually do the talking with Mav there as support in case something goes wrong (it has not gone horrible even once — with various degrees of explanations and time to process, everyone in their family came around to accept Bradley as a man)

---- the title of this fic, (sometimes I feel) like a monkey pilot, comes from the Comsat Angels' song, Monkey Pilot, and had been chosen mostly because it resonates with my trans experience (and Bradley's) and how it feels to be in the denial, 'if I don't think about it doesn't exist' stage of being trans, when you're so transfixed and not in control of your own life that it all feels like you're just going through the motion and don't know what you're doing, don't care what you're doing as long as you're still in motion (or in the air, in Bradley's case). It's the feeling of doing things out of habit and because that's what is expected of you while realizing sullen it makes you and how there's only a few things that make it better (again, mostly flying in Bradley's case). Also, it's aviation-themed and inspired by J.G. Ballard's short stories, so it seemed fitting to me.

[ikeromantic]

Tis the month where we bid farewell to a year filled with tears and laughter. A month where everything is under an expansive blaket of pristine white as if the world is cleansed into a crystal clean slate but before we say adieu to 2023 and ahoy to 2024, would the fine and most creative beloved scribe grant us a final (perhaps few) scribbles for 2023? Perhaps one of the great multi-bejeweled warlord as he sits outside with his beloved, watching a flurry dance of the heaven's crystal flakes or maybe with the rather enigmatic Vlad as he catches the first few snow on his cold hand and magically transform it into a crimson heart for his lady. Guess you can't figure out who this nony is eh.

Hehehe ^_^ I might have some ideas where this ask came from, but I won’t tell if you don’t! Thank you for your lovely compliments, and for being your sweet self. I think I’ll write something for Vlad. I haven’t had much opportunity to write for our strange vampire prince. Approx 1300 words of fluffiness.

Vlad pushed his flower cart along the icy cobblestones. Snow drifts covered the stoops and squares and hid the fountains and lampposts. The Paris streets were a winter wonderland, made softer by the blanket of snow. In a few hours, it would be reduced to piles of gray slush and chill ice-melt, but now, in these early morning hours, it was magical.

“We should enjoy it while we can,” he said softly, his breath steaming. 

The poinsettias on his cart nodded with red-leafed wisdom, bobbing silently in their colorful pots. Vlad regarded them solemnly. They were flowers of good cheer, the joy of family and friends. That was why he’d brought them today. To spread happiness despite the season’s chill. He found a good street to stop on. 

There were several other stands setting up here, selling hot cocoa or mulled wine. Hand held snacks and little bags of colorful candy. By the time Vlad settled into place, the street was bustling with the day’s traffic. Most barely noticed the man and his flower cart.

Vlad watched the crowd, his half-lidded ruby gaze searching for the right customers. The people that would most need a bit of cheer. The first was a young maid, hurrying through the shops. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, and her uniform was ill-fit, too big for her small frame. She wore a face of intense concentration as she tried to keep her hem out of the muck. 

He gave her a tiny white rose, barely more than a bud. In a day or two it would open into a beautiful rose. Her smile blossomed at the gift and she was humming as she returned to her errands.

The second was an old man in a patched coat. He wore a look of weary bitterness born of too many years alone, and expectations unmet. Vlad gifted him a poinsettia, with crimson blooms and a verdant stem. 

His third customer was a gentleman, a man with a young face but ancient eyes. He’d served as a soldier, and the horrors of that etched scars across his soul. Vlad gave him a bundle of forget-me-nots and baby’s breath. The man would never forget his lost friends and slain enemies, but life gave him a second chance. A new beginning.

The flowers in Vlad’s cart were given away one at a time, until he had only one left. A tiny white poinsettia in a glazed white pot. The plant had just one small flower, and two little green leaves and a narrow stem. There was a time when he might have cut such a plant down, but he’d come to realize that every bloom had beauty. 

He wondered who would come for this last little flower. The sun hung low in the sky, a distant glow at the edge of the city skyline. The lamplighters were already out, and many of the stalls were closing up. But Vlad didn’t want to leave until he’d found a home for his last blossom. 

The sunset came, its glory muted by the thickening clouds and the roiling mist that crept up the banks of the Seine. Candles flickered behind paned glass windows, and the lamp flames wavered in the growing darkness. It seemed the last flower would need to wait for another day to find its place, Vlad thought.

He took off his apron and tucked it into the cart with a sigh. Just as he straightened, a pair of mittens covered his eyes. Vlad froze stock still. He knew, of course, exactly who it was. 

“Guess who?”

“Hm. Charles?”

“Nope. Try again.”

Vlad chuckled. “Not Faust, of course. He only surprises me with needles or pills . . .” 

“Not Faust.” A tremulous laugh, held in.

“Some street urchin, then? Or are you a burglar? Perhaps I should struggle, hm?” He grinned, his fangs glinting in the gloom. Vlad turned, easily grabbing his hidden assailant. Her mittened hands settled on his shoulders as he brought her close for a kiss.

When he pulled back to look at her, she was smiling. “You knew it was me.”

“Of course.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Did you come to fetch me?”

She nodded. “It was getting late and I missed you.” Her eyes went to the near empty flower cart. “It looks like you had a good day.”

Vlad nodded. “The square was busy. People shopping for the holiday, or out getting things for their celebrations.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling his lover against his side. “Did you want to have a special celebration?”

“Being with you for the day is enough for me.” She leaned into his embrace, snuggling into his side. 

“But I was here all day . . .” Vlad’s eyes opened wide. “Is that why you missed me? I shouldn’t have left you alone for the whole -”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, I knew you’d want to be here, making people smile. But now your work is done and I have you all to myself.” Her wide, beautiful eyes regarded him. 

Vlad didn’t think he would ever get used to that look. Full of love and hope and joy. He couldn’t help but smile as warmth blossomed in his chest. “Then let’s make this a special evening for just the two of us.” 

He picked up the last tiny poinsettia, the white bloom seemed to almost glow in the evening light. “I think this flower was waiting for you. See how glad it is that you are here?” 

She leaned close, her fingers almost touching the plant. “It’s so beautiful.”

Vlad tipped her chin toward him, and kissed her again. Her lips were warm and soft, and her mouth tasted of cinnamon and spice, sweet as mulled wine. She was everything to him, and he still could not believe he held her in his arms. Centuries he’d waited, wanted, ached for her. It felt like a dream, one he never wanted to wake from. A world without her was no world worth waking to.

The snow began to fall again, tiny flakes dancing on the evening mist. 

She pulled back to look up at the drifting snowflakes. “Look! It’s snowing again!” She tugged off her mitten and caught a tiny flake in the palm of her hand. “It’s like an icy bit of lace, don’t you think?” Her hand lifted to show him.

He laughed. “It is. And already starting to melt.”

“Oh no!” Her eyes widened. “I should let it go.” She waved her hand in the air to release the flake, but it held to her skin, the edges already thinning to nothing.

Only she would be worried about destroying one tiny snowflake, he thought. His silly, lovely, ridiculous girl. Vlad caught her hand and blew across it, sending the tiny snowflake skirling back into the night. Then he licked the bead of moisture from her palm, letting the tip of his tongue tickle across her skin.

She giggled and tried to pull her hand back. “Vlad! What if someone’s watching?”

“What if they are?” He kissed his way to her wrist. There he could feel the delicate tracery of her veins and vessels, the steady pulse of her kind and loving heart. “I want everyone to know how much I love you.” He nipped the spot, a promise and a tease. 

“Vlad,” she repeated, breathily this time, a heat in her gaze that could melt more than a snowflake. 

He tugged her mitten back over her hand. “Let’s go home. I want to celebrate you.” 

“Don’t you mean with me?” She picked up her flower as he began pushing the cart.

“That too.” Vlad smiled.

[minty-mumbles]

Honor in the Braids

Summary: Everyone keeps their hair long in Wild’s Hyrule. Everyone braids their hair in Wild’s Hyrule. Everyone except Wild.

Author Notes: This fic was heavily inspired by three other fics. Check out the end notes on AO3 for links. @bunnyambushed you asked if I could tag you in this when I finally posted this fic, so here you go! :)

CW: Emotional Self Harm/Implied Self Harm

(Read on AO3)

~~~

Link, now called Wild, ran his eyes appraisingly over his new companions’ hair, and promptly shoved all his assumptions into a tiny box in his mind labeled “cultural differences.” 

He could tell that tiny box is going to get very full, very quickly.

But really. What a mess their hair is. The youngest’s was still crusted with sea salt, and the one with the pink streak in his hair was hiding a rat's nest under that hat of his. And wasn’t that pink streak interesting? Wild itched to ask how he had managed to dye his hair like you would dye clothing, but knew it wasn’t his place. He wondered if it symbolized anything.

At least the captain kept his hair sleek and well managed, but something told Wild that doing so was considered unusual.

Because surely it wasn’t possible for every single one of these heroes to be as dishonorable or disgraced as he was? Surely they had not all failed? 

It made more sense to assume that hair simply wasn’t as important in their culture, and leave it at that. 

~~~

“Your hair’s getting a bit long, even for me.” Four’s words were said in jest, nothing more than a light joking tone. Wild knew that. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He could only hear the sting of the words, the hidden meaning of “You don’t deserve to wear your hair long. Look at what’s become of Hyrule, look at what happened to the people who were under your care. Do you think you deserve it?” 

Wild knew there was no hidden meaning. Four was just teasing him. The smithy’s hair barely brushed his shoulders, and even that seemed to be considered long for men in the other heroes' eras. Of course, they would tease him for the oddity.

He did his best not to react, deliberately not looking up from his slate. He wasn’t actually reading anything or taking stock of his inventory, but if he pretended to not be interested in the conversation, maybe they would leave him alone. “Everyone keeps their hair long in my Hyrule. It’s normal.”

Wild could see Wind tilting his head like a confused puppy out of the corner of his eye. “Eh? Everybody? But what about your Zelda? You showed us a picture of her, and hers is short!” 

Wild nodded. “Yes, Zelda keeps her hair very short. For personal reasons.” That managed to shut the conversation down quickly. 

The group was fairly comfortable with each other at this point. They had shared many secrets with each other. (Wild especially didn’t like keeping information about his journey a secret. His skin already told a good portion of it without him even having to open his mouth.) However, that didn’t mean that the group didn’t value privacy. No one ever pushed for a story that someone didn’t want to tell.

~~~

“You know, I’m surprised that you can keep your hair so neat.” 

Wild took a deep breath in, before turning to face the captain. 

Cultural differences. He breathed out deeply. Cultural differences. He means no offense. 

“What makes you say that?” If the captain saw through his thin attempts to keep his cool, he gave no indication of it.

“Your hero title is the Hero of the Wilds, and it shows. You really are quite the wild young man. I don’t think you bathe even once a week,” Here, he was met with an unamused stare from Wild. They called him Wild, but at least he was civilized enough not to comment on other people’s bathing habits. “Yet, you keep your hair so clean and you brush it every day, multiple times. Why?”

Sometimes, Wild cursed the Goddess for instilling curiosity into all her heroes, because he did not want to explain.

These heroes knew about his failures, and seemed not to judge him for them. But he did not want to explain how important hair was to him. He did not want to explain the stigma behind unbraided hair. He did not want to explain what Zelda was doing to herself by cropping her hair short. He did not want to explain how he just… didn’t want to braid his hair. Years of muscle memory from before the Calamity urged him to do so. But he just didn’t want to.

His hair was sacred, and he would honor himself, and his ancestors, and his goddess enough to keep it clean. But he didn’t want to keep it braided.

Would they understand?

Could they?

He stared at Warriors long enough that the Captain started to look uncomfortable as Wild tried to figure out what to say. He could just tell him the truth, let the words spill from his lips. But he didn’t want to do that either. Warriors wouldn’t understand. None of them would understand.

~~~

The heat of the fire made the already sweltering day even less tolerable. Sweat pricked on the back of his neck, and he wished he had pulled his hair back into a ponytail before he had started working. He was in the middle of peeling carrots, and his hands were stained orange, and were grimy from the leftover dirt on the vegetables. He wouldn’t dare touch his hair with the state his hands were in right now. 

So he would just have to deal with it.

He hunched his shoulders, trying to keep his hair from spilling over his shoulders and into his work, but with every motion he made, more strands escaped. He growled slightly.

His annoyance did not go unnoticed. 

When Wind approached him from behind, Wild wasn’t bothered. He trusted these men, and he knew Wind wasn’t going to do anything. If anything, Wind was probably going to throw himself across Wild’s back, sling his arms around his neck, dramatically ask if dinner was done yet- despite it very clearly not being done- and generally make a nuisance of himself. 

The first touch that came on the top of Wild’s head, with Wind’s fingers carding through his hair, made Wild tense. Wind continued, as if Wild was not suddenly strung tighter than a taut bow string. 

Wild forced his words out, suddenly hypervigilant of the presence at this back. “What are you doing, Wind?” The boy wouldn't go through this ruse just to prank him, right? Wild knew that. Of course Wind wouldn't do that. 

The boy liked pranks as much as the next person, but everyone in the group knew how touchy Wild was about his hair, even if they didn’t know why. Wind wouldn’t do anything to it, no matter how much the group teased him about cutting his long hair. 

Knowing that didn't let Wild to relax, though. He didn’t think anyone else had ever touched his hair. No one had dared. Not even Zelda. Should he be allowing this? It seemed too private. But, then, it was just Wind. Wind, who was all but a little brother to him.

Wind’s response was light and relaxed, no doubt deliberately so. Wild’s tense back would give away his unease to anyone looking at him. “I’m gonna braid your hair! I do it for Arryl all the time, so you don’t have to worry about me messing it up or getting it tangled!”

Wild’s breath barely left his body, and on autopilot, he heard himself responding. “Oh. I had never thought of braiding it…” Wind hummed in acknowledgement, and continued to chatter away about his sister, but Wild wasn’t listening.

He had, in fact, thought of braiding his hair. He had spent hours considering it. His fingers twitched every morning, desperate to perform the routine that he had become so familiar with before the Calamity. His fingers remembered the motions of making a knight’s braid intimately, even if his brain didn't know it. He did not doubt that if he let himself, he would be able to pull his hair back into a respectable form.

He had never let himself give in to the urge, though. 

He brushed his hair every morning and night, and allowed himself a simple ponytail for practical reasons. But that was all he allowed himself.  

His lack of embellishments marked his shame. He was nothing, no one. He had no part to speak of, no family to claim him. He had won no great battles, at least not in his eyes. 

Even the youngest child had something - a braid that symbolized that they were a child, loved and protected, or their family’s plait.  

No Wild, though. He had no family left, and certainly no family plait.

He really should have shorn himself for the shame he had brought on his family. He should have given himself the ultimate shame for the pain and suffering and destruction that he had allowed to befall the kingdom. Zelda herself had cut her hair short enough that it barely brushed her shoulders. 

No one had seen her slip a small knife into her pocket the first time she was allowed to go for a walk alone after the Calamity was defeated. Paya had shrieked in horror when Zelda had returned, her hair as short as a child’s. Wild had come running at the yell, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. He had expected monsters to have somehow found their way into Impa’s house. What he found was almost worse than what he expected. 

Zelda had confided in him, much later. They had been sitting on the bank of a quick-moving stream, watching the remnants of Zelda’s once again freshly cut hair drift away. She cut it every few months, to keep the hair from reaching her shoulders.

She knew Impa disapproved, she said. She knew that Paya sometimes couldn’t look at her directly, hiding her horrified expression whenever Zelda returned from cutting her hair. She knew no one else understood, save Wild. She had given him a wobbly smile when she said that.  

Her position as the last royal in Hyrule demanded that she keep it long enough to braid her hair in the crown style, she said. Otherwise she would have no hair. But she allowed herself no jewelry, not ribbons, or flowers. She allowed herself no other braids speaking of her triumphs or achievements. 

The defeat of the Calamity came too late to save anyone. It was a pyrrhic victory at best. It deserved no celebration. 

Wild felt the same. So he allowed himself no braids. He kept his hair long only out of respect for his predecessors. So as to not besmirch their legacy with a hero who had to shave his head, to spare the legacy of the hero that ultimate shame.

Now he comes to find out none of them had hair much longer than Zelda’s.

How ironic.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by his hand mechanically reaching for the next carrot, only to find the pile gone. Wind seemed to have realized he wasn’t listening, and had fallen silent, concentrating on his task.

Wild remained crouched, letting Wind finish his work before he stood to tend to the pots boiling over the fire. His knife dangled loosely in his grip as he let the oh-so-unfamiliar-familiar movements of someone tugging on his hair lull him. The motions were so familiar, and something welled up in his mind. It was a familiar mental pressure that signaled a memory trying to break through. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain on whether he should shrug it off or let himself fall into it and discover a part of his past.

After a moment more, he gave in.

“Remember, sweetheart, your hair is your pride. Wear it long, and keep it clean. Keep your braids straight and even, and we’ll always be with you.” The voice was like honey, so close to his ears as calloused hands carded through his hair. Everything was warm. The hands, the voice, the fire burning low in front of him, and Link himself. 

“Yes, Mama.”

The memory was short, and when he came back to the present, no one had even realized he had left at all. His hand shot up involuntarily to pat the top of his head. Wind made a disgruntled noise, but let him be. Wild’s fingers brushed experimentally against neat sections of hair. 

Some weak, shivering part of Wild, hidden deep within himself, made him want to curl up and cry. 

“Alright,” Wind declared after only a few more minutes. Wild wonders for a moment where Wind got the hair tie from, before remembering what the sailor had said about his sister. “It’s all done! Oh, wait-” Wild watched as the sailor scrambled over to Legend’s pack, and stole his mirror shield, lugging it back to Wild. Legend called out in protest, but his voice held no real anger and the veteran quickly turned back to his conversation with Time, so Wind paid him no mind. “Here! Look!” 

Wild took the shield as it was thrust into his arms, and held it up automatically. 

His hair was woven into a four-strand type of braid that was traditional for young preteen children. It was neatly done, for all the meaning of the braid itself didn’t serve him. None of his sideburns or front sections of his hair were let loose. All the strands of his hair were pulled back neatly. Nothing was left out of the braid for him to braid in victory braids or family plait.

It wasn’t a half-bad job, really. Wild wanted to laugh at the ill-fitting braid, but instead he smiled wobbly at Wind, handing back the shield. “Thank you.” Wind beams at him, and wanders back to return the shield to Legend. He’s pulled into a conversation with Warriors, and Wild is left alone.

Well, he’s not really alone. He has eight friends to keep him company, after all.

Would it ever make up for those he lost, he wondered?

~~~

The second time Wild tried to bring his companions to a town in his Hyrule, he ran into a bit of an issue.

The first time hadn’t been a big deal. They had been dropped at the entrance to Rito village. They had scared Muzli, the guard stationed there, half to death. Wild had apologized profusely to him for the abrupt entrance, and led the rest of the heroes to the inn for the night. 

They had been swept away through another portal before they had time to make it to another village. Wild hadn't bothered to think of the state of his companions' hair then. Not when no one in Rito Village would think about it either. Most of the Rito probably wouldn’t even notice, and those who did would just think it strange. (The Rito, of course, did not follow the same traditions as Hylians did involving hair, as they didn’t have any.) 

The second time, the portal dumped them right onto Kakariko Bridge. It was still early in the day, leaving them plenty of time to make it to Kakariko before the sunset, leaving them with no need to head to Dueling Peaks Stable for the night

They were halfway to the town before the realization struck Wild. There was absolutely no way he could take the others into the middle of the Sheikah town the way they looked.

The realization had him stopping in his tracks at the front of the group, mouth hanging open in shock at his own absentmindedness. 

Hyrule, who had been trailing after him and chatting with Sky, bumped into him before he realized the Champion had stopped moving. “Wild? Why’d you stop?”

Wild buried his face in his hands, groaning slightly. By then, the rest of the heroes had caught up to them, and had noticed his distress. “I can't believe I forgot.” He offered by way of an explanation, although it wasn’t a very good one. It was true, though. He himself had been so shocked at their appearance when they had first met, he couldn’t believe he had become adjusted to it so quickly. 

Going back to the stable wasn’t really an option either, and he really did need to speak to Impa. They would need to go to Kakariko, which meant…

“Does everyone have cloaks?“ There was a general murmur of agreement that they did, although they all sounded confused. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, there was no reason for cloaks. Despite their confusion, Wild was able to relax for a moment.

Wild always wore his cloak around both Kakariko and Hateno, and more recently, Tarry Town. People knew who he was, knew of his refusal to braid his hair. Most were willing to overlook it- he was the hero, after all. He wore the cloak nonetheless, as he found it made people more at ease when they couldn’t see his unwoven locks. 

All nine of them wearing cloaks when it wasn’t cold or raining would get them weird looks, but it would be better than not being let into the inn because they looked like a group of mercenaries, or cultists, or Yiga spies. They wouldn’t have the excuse of being the Hero for their appearance.

He was pulled out of his relieved thoughts by Wind’s voice. “Um, I don’t have a cloak. Why?” Wild stared at Wind, his mind running a mile an hour. The situation didn’t call for this much panic. He could just have the group stay put for a little bit, and run ahead to buy Wind a cloak at the store in Kakariko, but something about it made his heart stutter in his chest. 

He knew his obvious agitation was making the other heroes uneasy. But Wild didn’t really know what to say. He didn’t know how to explain why it was important that they cover their hair, why Wild himself didn’t really need to. Would cloaks even be enough to hide their hair? Probably not. The front part of their hair would still hang out of the hood, and it would draw attention. 

Wind tried again after receiving no reply. “My cloak ripped a little while ago. I was gonna buy a new one in the next town we visit. Why does it matter? It doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain.”

“You’ll need it to get into town. Here,” Wild was ushering them along the path before they could even protest. Just around the bend, there was a break in the tall cliffs alongside the path, leading to a small space that, a year ago, had belonged to a camp of bokoblins that had stolen Hetsu’s Maracas. The clearing was far enough off-road that it would keep them out of the sight of any possible travelers coming along the road. With only a few more words of explanation, he was gone, headed into town at a sprint.

~~~

“Thank you so much,” He said to the shopkeeper breathlessly. She had startled when he had come bursting into the shop, asking for a cloak several sizes too small for him, but she had complied easily. 

He hesitates before he leaves, thinking of something else that he might need. Then he leaned back over the counter, voice dropping to be a little quieter for his next request.

~~~

The others had dispersed through the clearing while Wild was away. Hyrule and Time looked up from where they were sitting at the base of a tree when he passed, but Wild didn’t pay attention to them, slowing to a stop in front of where Legend and Wind were talking, brandishing the cloak he had bought. The one he had gotten was a lovely dark blue. It was made more for rain than to keep out the cold, but Wild had figured that would be more useful to the sailor in the long run. 

“Here, put it on.” 

Wind opened his mouth to protest or to question him, but must have seen something in Wild’s eyes that made him hesitate. He took the cloak, slinging it over his shoulder and fastening the clasp. Wild ran an inspecting eye over him. He had purposefully gotten one that would be a little too big for the sailor, making the hood fall in front of his face a bit. The cloak would probably need to be hemmed. Wind could grow into it and let down the hem as he needed to. 

“Where’s your hair ties?” Wild questioned after he had satisfied himself. 

“My pack,” Wind answered, already digging through his bag, “Why? Do you need some?”

“No, you do.” Wild replied, taking the hair ties from Wind, then gesturing for him to turn his head so Wild could get at his hair.

Wind frowned at him, as squiggly as always, and didn’t move. “Why would I need to use my hair ties? I only keep them for Arryl! My hair isn’t that long, and I’m not a girl, anyways!”

“Yeah,” Legend interjected from where he stood, arms crossed and frowning at Wild. His face was pinched, like he was staring at a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “What's all this about?” 

Wild rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. He had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had sort of forgotten that the others would have no frame of reference to his actions. His actions would look strange to the others, especially when he’s been less than forthcoming with information about this, in the past and today. It made sense the others would be getting concerned. He had to tell them. 

“Remember when I said it was normal for people in my Hyrule to keep their hair long?” Receiving nods, he continued. “Well, it’s more like everyone does. Everyone. All the time. People only cut their hair in extreme circumstances. Usually bad ones. Or you might get your hair cut as punishment for a crime. You guys really can’t go walking into a town like that, especially if you want to get into the inn or speak to Impa.” 

“There's not a lot we can do about that,” Time interjected, having stood up from where he was sitting with Hyrule. “And besides that, it’s not our custom to keep our hair long, or braided.” 

“I know,” Wild said, mentally pleading for them to understand. “I’m not saying you have to grow it out, but I mean it when I say you can’t walk into town like that. Especially a Sheikah town. You literally won’t be let in anywhere. The cloaks are to hide your hair length.”

“It’s that serious?” Wild heard Warriors quietly mutter to Twilight from where they had gravitated toward the conversation. Most of the others had joined now, and Wild tried not to shrink inwards at all the eyes on him. 

Wild gestured again for Wind to turn, and the sailor finally complied, twisting his head to the side so Wild could get at the hair framing his face more easily. Wild went to work. He didn't even have to think about what braid to give him. A sailor’s braid was the obvious choice. As far as Wild remembered, he had never woven this braid himself, but he had seen it plenty of times in Lurelin, and it wasn’t that hard to recreate. 

As he worked, Wind stared at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, so the cloaks are to hide our hair, but what about these braids? Why do I have to have one?”

“You all do,” Wild plowed ahead, interrupting any protests. “Listen, it’s just for a little bit. The length of the hair isn’t the only important thing? They don’t mean anything bad, okay? The one I’m giving Wind means that he’s a sailor.” He drew away from, having finished and tied off Wind’s braid.

Wind reached up, feeling at his hair. “Wow, really? They have different meanings? That’s cool!”

Wild left him to his exploration and turned towards Legend, raising an eyebrow. Besides Wild and Four, Legend probably had the longest hair out of the group. Legend scowled, but nodded. Wild took hold of one of Legend’s sideburns- the one that was stained pink- and started his work. (Wild still wondered what caused the odd color, but refrained himself from asking at the moment.)

For Legend, Wild decided to give him a braid that signified magical powers. Zelda had worn it before the Calamity, Wild remembered. (She had always felt guilty for it, as she had never exhibited any magical power.) Wild himself had even worn it on occasion, before. His ability to slow time was not the most flashy power, but he still had it, so he had worn the braid occasionally. Legend was much more dedicated to channeling his magic through items and weapons, but he was still incredibly powerful. That was something to be celebrated.

“Why, though?” Legend asked “Why is it so important that we do this?”

The constant questions prickled at Wild’s skin. He didn't begrudge them for being curious. Wild was asking them to do something that was very out of the ordinary, at least to them. He understood they had questions. But it felt like the questions were making him tiptoe around a topic he really had no desire to speak with anyone about, much less the other heroes. He didn’t want them to know what he was doing.

Not that he was really doing anything. The opposite, really. That was kind of the point.

His hands stalled halfway through making Legend’s braid, as he tried to think of how to explain to someone who had no context to the practice of hair braiding. ”Is it sort of a religious thing? I think, at least…” 

Wild sighed, frustrated. He figured he could just start from the beginning. “Not everyone keeps their hair as long as they possibly can. Some keep it a little shorter for practical reasons. Fighters, farmers, and other physical laborers. But everyone keeps it long enough to braid it. The braids tell others who you are. It’s your identity being shown for the world to see, a way to celebrate and be proud of who you are. Your family plait, braids for different professions, different ages, different roles that people play in society.’

“It’s not just your identity, also. There are braids for winning great victories in battle, or personal victories, for marriages, pretty much anything. People who don’t wear braids make others wary, because it’s a sign you don’t really belong anywhere. Having your hair cut as punishment is a sign that society has deemed you unfit to participate in the tradition.”

“But your Zelda cuts her hair short, doesn’t she?” Hyrule seemed to regret the question the moment he finished speaking, realizing it may be a sensitive topic.

Wild shook his head, frowning. “That’s none of your business.” No one protested how abruptly he shut down that line of questioning.  

“So that’s why you have to keep the length of your hair hidden while you're in the village. Not only could they think you're criminals, but criminals aren’t the only people who have short hair. The Yiga, for one example, cut their hair short as a sign that they’ve severed ties with the goddess, and worship the Calamity.” The others stay silent at that explanation. They were all aware of the Yiga; Wild had told them as a precautionary measure the first time they had landed in his Hyrule. Needless to say it had not gone over well. It was still a bit of a touchy subject. Wild could understand. If any of the others were hunted by a cult of assassins, he wouldn’t be happy either. 

“I’m weaving your hair because most people have their family plaits, at least, framing their faces. It’ll seem strange if you don’t and I don’t want people to have any reason to look closer.” Wild continued when no one said anything, finally realizing he had been staring at the half-done braid in his hand the whole time he had been speaking, and continued with that too. “You probably wouldn’t be kicked out if people saw- I wasn't the first time I wandered in, and my hair was atrocious,” Wild took a moment to grimace in embarrassment, before moving on, “But you won’t be able to speak to Impa, or go into any of the shops or the inn.”

Time spoke up, voice heavy with interest. “And you can't vouch for us?”

Wild shook his head vehemently. “No. The only reason people allow me to get away with it is because everyone knows I’m the hero. I sort of get a pass, and even then people treat me… differently.” (He definitely should not have said that. Several of the other heroes did not look happy about that.) “I really don’t want to explain that you have different cultural ideals about hair because you’ve time traveled, and I doubt anyone would believe me anyways.” Time nodded his assent, looking disappointed, but not surprised. 

The next to speak was Legend. “You said it was religious practice, though. What’s that about?” 

Wild considered for a moment. “Well, the practice itself isn’t really religious, but taking out your braids is seen as a very intimate thing. People do it when they’re at home, but also when they’re praying. It's a way to bare yourself in front of the gods. Hair in general is… sacred, in a way. It’s a very personal thing to let someone touch your hair, and unless you are unable to do so, the only person who should be cutting it is yourself.” 

When no one else asked another question, Wild let himself relax for a moment, glad the interrogation was over. “So, that’s kind of the gist of it.” He let out a gusty sigh. 

Well, no one, until- “What about you? Why don’t you wear braids?” It was Legend who asked, although WiId had no doubt the rest of them were thinking it. Of course Legend was the one to ask. He’d never been one to shy away from difficult topics

“I haven’t needed any until now. I’ll do mine after I do all of yours.” It was the truth, just not the whole truth. He still didn't technically need to. The Sheikah had grown used to his unbraided hair, but he knew he had to give himself one to appease the others. It wasn’t fair to ask them to adhere to his culture if he wasn’t even participating.

The other heroes weren’t stupid. They all knew there was more to it than that, more that he wasn’t telling them. But the excuse would get them off his back and give him a chance to think of what braid he would give himself to appease them. The rest of them dispersed slowly after that, sitting against the trunks of nearby trees, or going to admire the view from the seer drop-off nearby. 

He allowed himself to become lost in thought. 

Who even was he? Who could he claim to be? A knight? No, definitely not. He wasn’t a knight anymore. He served no one, much less any non-existent military or monarchy. 

Could he claim to be a hero? Wild didn’t like to think so, but these venerated heroes of the past seem to have accepted him as one of them, and seemed to have absorbed him into their ranks. 

Could he claim to be his parents’ child? Not anymore. He couldn’t even remember them, besides snippets. He didn’t know if he wanted to remember them. They were too far away for him to reach, trapped in the past he couldn’t ever go back to. It would only bring him pain. It would only bring him heartbreak.

What was he? 

What was notable about himself that was solely his own, and not something gifted to him by his parents, by the king, by Hylia herself? 

Anything that he used before the Calamity wasn’t applicable anymore. He had forgotten everything, everyone. He had rebuilt himself from the ground up, dragging himself up from a stumbling child to a sure-footed traveler.

He was no longer the skilled swordsman he was before. He had instead turned towards the bow, leaning into the long-range weapon that was more useful for keeping a single traveler alive in his Hyrule. 

That was something he was. He was an archer. He had picked up a bow with only a vague idea of what it was, and taught himself how to use it. Missed shot after missed shot, bokoblin after bokoblin, he had perfected his craft, a symbol of his determination to reshape himself- not as a hero, but as Link.

He couldn’t call himself a hero, but he could call himself an archer.

By the time he had made his decision, he had worked through most of the others. He’s glad for the hair ties he asked the shopkeeper for. Wind’s couple of ties wouldn’t have been enough for all of them. 

He had given Warriors and Sky a knight’s braid, of course. Time was given a farmer’s braid. He had seemed to appreciate it over something that represented his fighting skills, when Wild had told him what it represented. Twilight got the same. 

Before Wild couldn’t move onto Hyrule, Twilight grasped him gently by the wrist. “Wild, we’re okay with doing this to blend into your Hyrule, but I just wanted to ask if you were alright with doing this. If this is a Sheikah custom, they shouldn’t be forcing it on you too. I think we’ve all noticed you're very particular about your hair. You never braid it, but now…” Twilight trailed off when he saw the look his words created on Wild’s face. 

“No,” The denial was automatic, but as he fruitlessly tried to find the words. He finally settled on. “It’s a Hylian thing too.” 

Twilight released his grip on Wilds wrist, seemingly assured he wouldn’t move away. His brows furrowed. “Then you…”

“I just don’t.” Wild settled on the simplest answer. The easiest one. It was true. He just didn’t. Did they really need to know why? 

Twilight nodded slowly, “Alright. You’ve just been acting very…” His scowl deepened for a moment, although Wild knew his frustration probably wasn’t directed at him. The rancher ran his hand through his hair, sweeping back his bangs. “You can talk to any of us about this, you know that, right?” Wild could read between the lines of Twilight’s words. I’m gonna leave this alone for now, but I don’t believe you when you say you’re fine.

He nodded mutely, and Twilight moved away from him, quickly being replaced by Hyrule. Wild’s hands started moving through the traveler’s hair automatically, not paying attention to Hyrule's worried gaze on him. 

~~~

“Oh, Link…” Paya’s voice was soft. It wasn’t quite pity; it was the opposite, really. There was a sort of awe in her voice that Wild couldn’t place. Paya reached a hand out towards his hair- towards the archer’s braid he had put in his hair- and Wild couldn’t stop himself from twitching away from her. Paya gave him that familiar nervous smile of hers, and let her hand drop. 

“I think… um, I’m glad that- that you found- some people to travel with.” She nodded firmly at him, her own braid swayed with her movements. As far as Wild could remember, that particular braid meant that she was the heir to a noble family, which would demark her position as Impa’s heir. After a moment’s pause, she moved to continue past him to her grandmother’s house, tossing a significant look over her shoulder as she did. 

~~~

Wild drew his fingers through his hair, carding out the single braid until his hair was straight again. His movements were slow and contemplative.

He knew one or more of the other heroes were probably watching him from where they sat by the fire, but he also knew that prayer was considered a private thing in most, if not all of their Hyrules, and they would turn away when they realized what he was doing. 

He picked up the hair tie from where he had set it in his lap when he took it out, and placed it on the long, low table between the statue and him. The single tie looked pathetic on the table. It was big enough to have room for more adornments than Wild could imagine using. Even before- before the calamity, before his death- he had never had enough ornaments in his hair to fill a table like this.

For a moment, he wondered how he knew that, before a memory began to nudge at the back of his conciseness. This time he doesn't hesitate to allow it to overtake his mind. 

His hands are practiced and steady as they swiftly remove his braids. One by one, the beads and ties holding them in place are removed and set on the gilded table in front of him. 

First comes the main braid falling down his back that marks him as a knight. The blue ribbon and golden bead that declares him as a member of the royal guard are carefully removed and laid in front of him. Then the smaller braid that frames the left side of his face that marks him as a master swordsman.

He leaves that braid on the right side of his face that declares him to be his parent’s son to last, but when he has nothing else to do, he reluctantly unravels that one too, and carefully sets his family bead down on the table.

When he’s finished, he takes a moment to look at his beads and ties laid out on the table he kneels in front of. He’s never used a prayer table as ostentatious as this one before. It’s made of a dark ebony that looks even darker next to the bright golden inlays in the wood. The entire thing is intricately carved. The table is probably worth more than a month of his salary.

It’s nothing to the glamor of the rest of the cathedral, though. Gold glimmers everywhere, glinting in the midday sun that finds its way through the large stained glass windows behind the altar. The ceiling arches high over his head, gloriously painted with the story of Hylia descending to live among mortals during the time of the first chosen hero.

His breath sounds too loud in the large space. His heart beat rushing in his ears drowns out the sounds of shuffling and coughs from the nobles who sit in the pews behind where he and Zelda kneel. The King sits there too, and Link feels himself straighten up subconsciously at the thought of the King watching him.

Zelda takes much longer than him to finish unbraiding and brushing out her hair.

Her hair is longer than his. She is a princess, with more time in her day to spend on formalities such as brushing it and braiding it, and he is a knight who needs to keep his hair a slightly shorter length than most people. To do otherwise was simply asking for trouble on the battlefield. Not only that, but she has many more ornaments than he would ever need. 

He knows the meaning of some of them, while others are a mystery to him. The one braid she’s working on right now has four beads woven into it. Each of the beads were gifted to her by the different tribes of Hyrule. One from the Gerudo, one from the Gorons, one from the Zora, and one from the Rito. They showed their support of the young princess, and symbolized their loyalty to her future reign. 

Link feels slightly awkward waiting for her to finish. He’s not sure what to do while he waits, or where to look. It feels wrong to look at her while she unbraids her hair. It’s too vulnerable and intimate. Things like this should be kept for the privacy of your own home, or at the very least, your own bunk in the barracks, where the other recruits have the decency to look away. Not here in a cathedral with scores of people looking on. But then again, Zelda is a princess. She's been doing ceremonies like this her entire life. She’s probably more than used to it by now. 

He lets his eye fall on the stony visage of Hylia that stares back down at him while he waits- it seems like the safest place to look- and tries to forget the many other stares burning into his back.

He shivered slightly when he snapped back to the present. It had cooled down significantly since he went under, and a brisk breeze was blowing against his chilled skin. This memory seemed to have lasted a bit longer than the first, for the air to have cooled off this much, but the sun had not yet set, so it couldn’t have been too long.

It was an odd feeling. He was once more in Hylia’s sight, bare and unlabeled. He was no longer Link, the warrior, the knight, the hero. He is no longer Link, his mother’s son. He is no longer Link, lover of the Zora princess. He is just Link, himself. 

Somehow, he felt ten times as bare and open and vulnerable before the goddess here, in a small shrine within a small village, with a small audience- if anyone was watching him at all- then he did in that great cathedral, with seemingly half the world looking on.

This was not the first time he had prayed to Hylia, but it was the first time he had ever had use of the table in front of her shrine.

He does not know how spiritual he had been before he died. He doesn’t even know if he had ever prayed to the goddess of his own accord, and not as part of some ceremony.  But then he had woken up in that tomb, somehow stumbled into the Temple on the Great Plateau, and found that statue of Hylia. 

It was smaller than the one in his memory, less imposing, but somehow it seemed all the more holy for it. There had been a presence there that he had never felt before, but which seemed overwhelmingly familiar regardless. The face of the statue had been weathered away by a hundred years of rain and wind that seeped into the temple through the ruined walls and roof, but its hazy features had made him straighten up and run a self-conscious hand through his hair. 

He hadn’t known why he had felt the urge at the time. 

He hadn’t known why the ghost king had looked upon him with such surprise when he first laid eyes on the newly awakened hero.

Now, when he thinks back to his tangled hair, messy from a hundred years of sleep, and wet with the slippery liquid that had filled the Shrine, he cringes. 

The ghost king had been kind enough to instruct him to bathe in one of the many shallow ponds on the Plateau. That had at least gotten rid of the clear goo from the shrine, which had still clung to him hours after he crawled his way out of his tomb. He had owned no comb to untangle and straighten his hair, and his fingers were of little use, not with all the knots, but his hair had at least been clean.

The cleanliness had not lasted long after he had gotten off the plateau. Wild didn’t even want to think about what he must have looked like when he wandered into Kakariko. 

At the time, he hadn’t understood why Dorian had refused to let him up the stairs to Impa’s house. 

Paya had been the one to get Dorain to let him up the stairs, insisting that he did in fact, need to speak to Impa, quite urgently, and she would be more than enough to protect her grandmother if need be. 

He didn't doubt she would have been able to protect Impa. Paya was a shy girl,  and remained flustered around him to this day, but she was the granddaughter to the leader of the last remnants of the Sheikah. The Sheikah were a warrior people, and Paya was not an exception. She was more than a match for him, most days. Back then, when he was still weak from the shrine, all skinny, and learning to provide for himself, and skittish of people in general, Wild had no doubt she would have been able to protect Impa had he had tried anything

Regardless, it was a miracle they had let him talk to Impa in the state he had been in.

Since then, he’d learned. Partly from his memories, and partly from the kindness of Dorain, Paya, Bolson, and others, he had learned why it was important to keep himself presentable, to brush his hair, and keep it clean, even if he refused to braid it.  

He knew they disapproved of him wearing it unbraided.They thought he had done nothing to strip him of that right.

It didn’t matter what they thought. It was his hair. It was his choice.

He bowed his head over his single hair tie, and started his prayers.

~~~

Zelda found him later. 

She approached only after he had finished praying, and had sat himself on the edge of the small island the goddess statue rested on. He had no doubt that she had already introduced herself to the other heroes in the meantime. Or rather, interrogated them. No doubt she was bursting with questions. He had tried to preemptively answer as many as he could them in the letter he had sent to her when the group had visited Rito Village, but he had no doubt she had come up with more. 

When she sat down though, she didn’t interrogate him, instead sitting silently next to him. When he finally looked up from the water, he saw she wore a single pearl strung on a thin silver chain. 

She was not wearing it as a necklace.

The chain was woven into her crown of hair, the pearl coming to rest in the middle of her forehead. 

It wasn't a crown. Not really. But it was close enough. Everyone would know what it meant. 

“Sidon gave it to me,” She admitted. “He asked me… if I would wear it. I said yes,” She rushed on with her words, as if she thought Wild was going to interrupt her. “He doesn't understand the true importance of wearing braids, but he understands a little about wearing crowns… about the weight of the kingdom resting on you. And he didn’t even ask me to grow my hair out, he only asked me to wear one pearl. Just one.” 

She was breathless by the time she finished, and refused to look at Wild, like she was afraid he would tell her she wasn’t worthy of this. As if he would be angry with her for healing, when he himself didn’t know if he could bring himself to. 

She was right. Sidon did not share the same traditions as the Hylians and the Sheikah. None of the Zora did. (How could they? None of them had hair. The Gorons, and the Rito were the same. The Gerudo as well. Although they did have hair, they didn’t share very many traditions and practices with Hylians.) Sidon did not understand the tradition. But he did understand the pressure of ruling, the seemingly insurmountable task that Zelda was facing alone. Sidon knew that part of Zelda’s struggles far more intimately than Wild could ever hope to.

Not knowing what he could say. Wild said nothing. He leaned against her, tucking his head into the crook of her neck. Soft strands of her hair tickled his nose. She didn’t push him away, allowing him to stay. Her eyes remained fixed on the ripping water in front of them, which gleamed in the very last rays of the settling sun. She didn’t even seem to be paying attention when her hand automatically lifted and settled itself in his thick locks. 

Her hand carded through his hair slowly, working out non-existent tangles. She leaned away from him, and he let her, but instead of standing, or continuing to stare at the water, she turned to him, and motioned for him to face away from her.

He does. 

Her fingers were practiced and sure as she worked with his hair. She’s had the duty of braiding her own hair since she was released from the calamity, and her fingers have grown much steadier since she began.

He knows what braid she gives him. He does not ask, and she does not say, but he knows. It is one he has never won before, even before the Calamity, when he had done nothing to earn it yet except draw a sacred sword. 

He remains quiet, passive- which he realizes is very unlike himself- when Zelda reaches behind them, takes his hair tie from the prayer table. There's a moment of stillness between them, and neither of them break it, except to settle back together to ward off the evening chill. Wild’s sure they make an odd pair pressed together: a crownless princess with a pearl woven into her hair, and a disgraced knight with the hero’s braid in his hair.

[sunflowerandstrawberryspice]

More Song the Ninjago Fandom is missing out on

Alright folks guess who's back with more songs for you AND a playlist with them!

I've been having fun with this and I love talking about why I associate certain songs with certain characters I love doing it and I really do wish I was able to do animatics myself. But any who here are more songs! (Song-artist)

AS ALWAYS MAJOR SPOILERS

Violet- Marianne Ross: This song is SOOOOO Lloyd thinking about Harumi (I will in fact ignore Crystalized existence again), like it's all about thinking about someone who hurt you deeply and still thinking of them even though they treated you poorly. Lyrics: "When I think of violet I think of you I see you tryin got make is cool" Harumi trying to justify herself to Lloyd. "My mind reminds me of a purple hue, matched the sight of another bruise" Do I have to say more? Like Lloyd clearly cared about Harumi and she emotionally and physically beat the shit outta him

Like a Villain- Bad Omens: This song could totally be used for Morro or Garmadon in my opinion, the song is about someone talking to a person who unknowingly or not pushed them past the edge of no return. Lyrics: "Look into my face then look again we're not the same we're different" For Garmadon this could be a representation of the Great Devourer taking over his mind and transforming him and for Morro this could his transformation from a starry eyes kid to a depressed and evil ghost. "You need a new clean slate with out the dents" This could be either of them addressing Wu cause lets be honest neither of them have an all to peachy relationship with him, Morro especially who saw Wu with this new set of Ninja who are happier than he ever was who Wu treated like family while pretending Morro never existed. "I know that you tried your hardest I know that you meant well but you pushed me to the edge and I slipped and then I fell" For Morro this could totally be Wu's intense training and the way he made Morro believe he'd be the green ninja only for that to be false which kinda drove him crazy, or it could be used for Garmadon on him and Wu's journey in Spinjitzu Brothers to find the tea to heal Garmadon while the journey was supposed to get something to heal Garmadon it ended up just making him feel worse about himself and his place in the world. There's a bunch more awesome lyrics but we'd be here all day if I explained all of them.

Fourth of July- Sufjan Stevens: This one is a teny tiny bit of a reach but hear me out. Zane and his father. So we know that Dr. Julien passes away sometime I believe before season three takes place and it's said he died of natural causes and I'm just saying this could make a pretty decent song since I feel like Zane and Dr. Julien's really sweet father son relationship gets over looked a bit probably since he died so early on and we didn't get to see Zane mourn much afterwards. Lyrics: "And I'm sorry I left but it was for the best" Could totally be used for when Dr. Julien turned off his memory switch and everything. I don't have many particular phrases since the song is almost like a back and forth, but there are a lot of bird references which also works well for Zane.

Icarus-Luvbug: Now this could work for a couple different Ninjago parents since it's mostly about losing a child but I think it would work best with either the FSM feeling bad for what happened to Garmadon (if you want to make him less awful that is cause in cannon his feels about Garmadon are... slightly concerning like sir you're not supposed to hate your own child) Garmadon feeling bad about how Lloyd had to "kill" the child part of himself to lead the ninja, or Maya after Nya merged with the sea and how she wanted to badly to be there for her only for her to end up gone.

Little Lion Man- Mumford & sons: Misako and Lloyd, just trust me okay? Like it's all about someone blaming themselves how someone turned out and in a better world we would have gotten Misako canonically feeling awful for how Lloyd's childhood went due to the fact she decided to dump him gods know where (Darkly's is a boarding school and Lloyd doesn't remember his mother when he meets her so I'm assuming he was probably somewhere else before there?) but instead I'll settle for fan interpretation and I feel like this song would make a great Misako animatic. "But it was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line" and "Now learn from your mother or else spend you days biting your own neck" and "Tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before"

Sorry the list is a little shorter this time but honestly sometimes I don't have full explanations for songs I just have like general vibes, like my excuse is literally just: trust, with little to no explanation. Like:

The Archer- Taylor Swift: Lloyd, Cole or Sora

Don't meet your idols- Everybody's worried about Owen: Jay (cause his bio father was his idol ig?) or Nya (I have no clue man)

Your sister was right- Wilbur Soot: Jay

Punching Bag- The Front Bottoms: Kai

Runs in the Family-Amanda Palmer: Lloyd, Garmadon, Wu, Cole, Sora and honestly just most of them tbh

Friends- Sonic Sea Turtles: Cole, Lloyd, Jay and Garmadon

Idk y'all my brain is actually just one big Lego brick.

[gothyanki]

1, 8, 16 and 19 for Vin

3, 5, 12, 17 for Lykos

<3

20 Tav questions.

Thank you!! <3

Vin’ath:

1. what do they smell like at their freshest? (and/or after a tenday. your choice)

At their freshest, Vin’ath smells like Armour and Weapon (a combination of the actual materials and the substances they use to clean/oil them) + undertones of something… cold? silvery? indescribable to most non-gith + a faint whiff of grass, leaves, and soil + the dried flowers they keep in their pockets because they’re VERY picky about scents. Their favourite is lavender. If they’ve been smiting a lot, there’s also a hint of ozone in there.

I headcanon that githyanki don’t sweat as much as humans do and smell less strong even at their grottiest, so after a tenday it’s probably all of those odours amplified + the blood of their enemies overpowering it all. Lae’zel approves. Vin does not – see above re: fastidiousness.

8. if either, are they part of the astarion/gale book club (magic & literature) or the wyll/shadowheart book club (trashy romance novels)?

At first, neither. Vin got put off reading early on in life – while they excelled at swordplay growing up, they found slate-based learning much more difficult, and the environment they were in was anything but supportive. They fell in love with theatre after getting out of the crèche system, but that didn’t really translate to written literature of any kind. That association with the cult propaganda they had to study was hard to break.

…until, that is, someone who shall remain unnamed lent them a book about a ruthless githyanki pirate whose stony heart was melted by the power of love. Vin may or may not have cried. Ever since then, they’ve been a semi-regular attendee at Wyll and Shadowheart’s reading circles. While they’d still rather see a performance, getting to carry the stories around in their backpack is growing on them.

16. what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

“Even these sturdy, practical shorts carry an aura of righteousness about them.”

(Vin’s definitely a boxers person.)

19. do you have a playlist for your tav? if so, what’s the title + description?

I do, and I’m so sorry about the description in advance! It’s called “we’re in deep tsk’va now” and the description is “sad green paladin seeks dewormer rx”. Here’s the link (there’s a tiny bit of crossover with my Gith/Vlaakith/Zerthimon playlist because a few of these are general githyanki songs in my heart):

Lykos:

3. how would they kiss their LI?

Softly at first, with just a hint of teeth. He likes to start slow and get more intense. Nose and forehead kisses are his absolute favourite to greet a partner with, but he’s a big fan of kisses on top of the head too (giving or receiving, if he’s sitting down and/or actually ran into someone taller than he is). If he can play with their hair using fingers or psionics, he will.

…if you think all this sounds very gooshy and sappy for a githyanki, you’re right!  Man’s a FREAK. He also likes to be told what to do, though, so the secondary answer to this is “however his partner wants to be kissed”.

5. what does their tent area look like? where do they prefer to pitch their tent (next to water, covered on three sides, etc)?

(Yoinking from my other answer.)

He prefers to make his pitch on higher ground, where he’s got a good view of the surrounding area and is away from anywhere that could potentially flood (though he won’t admit it, he’s afraid of deep water - an early lesson on the natural hazards of the Material got to him). His actual sleeping space is small - some people would say cramped - and as covered as he can possibly make it. He once experimented with making and hanging a bead curtain, but it didn’t work out very well.

In what may or may not be an act of rebellion against the controlling environment he came out of, he lets the area in front get SUPER MESSY. He has a tendency to dump everything out of his pack to “sort through it” at the end of the day, and since he picks up everything he can physically carry, that means A LOT of stuff gets piled up there. Gems, trinkets, ribbons, jewellery, beads, books, bones, mirrors, scrolls, a slate or two… then he shoves it all back into his pack the next day to start the cycle over again. While it’s a mess, he never lets it get seriously filthy - he has that typical Astral githyanki hatred of dirt/dust/mould.

12. their companions are gossiping about them behind their back! who is it and what are they saying?

In Act 1, it’s probably Lae’zel speculating out loud about the super-secret Vlaakith cult he belongs to. After they’ve been travelling together for a bit, she starts making ominous noises questioning his loyalty to Vlaakith (she’s right to doubt it!) I think they try to present a united githyanki front at first, but sometimes their differences just JUMP out.

After Y’llek, I think just about everyone would be whispering about him… but for most of them, it’d be more out of concern than anything else. He’s much quieter about his feelings on Vlaakith than Lae’zel is and he underwent a very concrete, tangible loss of power as a result of his quasi-divine sponsor tossing him out on his arse. And – most shocking of all – he stopped braiding/dyeing his hair! The entire party was fretting and/or speculating wildly all the way to the Shadowlands. Then they ran into Minthara again in the worst of circumstances and the gossip took a turn.

17. how do they celebrate their birthday?

I think Lykos comes to see the day he unintentionally broke away from Vlaakith as his birthday, or the closest equivalent that matters to him. He doesn’t celebrate it as such, but he tries to spend as much of the day as possible in quiet contemplation. Sometimes he writes letters to absent friends. If Lae’zel’s around, they might engage in some especially vigorous sparring. Ditto for Minthara, although those duels tend to go to their favourite non-platonic violence place pretty quickly.

[tbcanary]

Hiii, I love ur edits so so much!! Was just wondering, how did you edit the last gif for the lucius fox edit? The way the glasses reflected was so cool to me

hello! this is a very good question, and i'm happy to answer it for you. but i feel like I should say to start that this is a pretty convoluted thing, the way i do it. i am almost positive someone else out there does it in a simpler and more straightforward way than i do. that being said, I can show you my process!

the main tools for this particular trick are layer masks and the animation timeline tool. i’ll also be using the movement/selection tools, but those are pretty straightforward I think? we’ll see, i guess!

i’m going to use this catwoman panel as an example.

let's start out by cropping it in and removing all the text bubbles/extra things, just to get a blank slate. i have a tutorial on how I edit panels here, and how I size them here, if that’s something you need. It’s not really necessary for this trick, but I like a clean visual.

i end up with something like this:

now you’ll want to make a new blank layer on top of this one. this will be the one you work on. this part comes down to kind of personal preference/artistic decision making, but you want to fill this blank layer with the sliding effect you want to have. this would be the reflection in lucius’ glasses, or the arrows in this ga/gl gifset.

(it looks very silly, I know. trust the process on this one.)

then, on the layer where I’ve just drawn the white lines, I am going to create a layer mask. select “layer” in the toolbar, find “layer mask,” and select “reveal all.” this won’t change anything about the visual at this point, but it’s necessary for creating this effect.

two things to do right away: unlink the lines from the mask by clicking the little “chain” between the two, and select the layer mask itself to work on.

wrong:

right:

(ignore groups one and two, by the way. those are just old versions of the panel/lines in case i screw up and need to go back to a previous one for some reason. you don’t have to do that; i’m allergic to the delete button.)

use the selection tool to pick the area where you want the affect to appear. for me, that’s all the yellow facets of the diamond, so i’ve outlined it like so:

on the layer mask, fill those sections with black. then hit either ctrl+i or command+i to invert the layer mask, so the white portions become black and the black portions become white. in my case, this makes the white lines… disappear! magic.

basically, what the layer mask is doing is choosing when the pixels on a layer show up. by coloring something in, you’re saying, ‘I don’t want the white lines to show up when they live in this space.’ so because you’ve inverted it, you’ve turned everything outside of the area you want to animate into a no-show zone, and only the area you want to work on is left.

this is probably not a very good explanation. sorry about that. mess around with it on your own and I guarantee it’ll make sense.

we are now done creating the layer mask! click on the layer itself to make sure you’re working on that for this next bit, like so:

this next part is like. actually really hard to explain. but i’ll try my best.

i’ve done a tutorial on how I animate gifs before. some of that might help here, but it does function a little differently. first, you’ll want to go to the timeline at the bottom of your screen.

create a new frame in the timeline with a 0-second delay. then go back up to the image itself, and select the lighting effect you made (my white lines, in this case). move it just a little bit. i’m opting to go just until I can see the first line or two on the diamond.

it won’t look like much. here’s the difference:

you can see (I hope) the tiny bit of “shine” on the upper left corner, where the mask is white and the pixels are visible.

now i’m going to make another new frame in the timeline, and nudge those lines a little more. let’s say six pixels to the right, and two pixels down. now it looks like this:

you will notice the change is almost imperceptible. that’s fine. the resulting animation will be smoother if you do smaller movements, as opposed to bigger ones.

basically… just repeat that. new frame, nudge a little. new frame, nudge a little. over and over, until the lighting effect has moved fully off the area you’re animating on the other side. These edits can get a little long/the number of frames can get huge, so if you catch that happening, wait until you get to the end and then select either all the even or all the odd frames and delete them.

this will double the speed of your animation, but given the very small increments in which we are moving things, it still won’t look too choppy. you could certainly start with bigger movements to cut this off at the pass, but it’s a LOT easier to cut these frames out than to add new ones in if it ends up looking too rough, so I opt for more frames and then remove them later.

once you’ve moved the lighting effect all the way across the image and over the other side, make sure you play it through at least once or twice to get a feel for it. this is what I have:

this is way, way too fast to me. that’s okay! we can mess around with the timeline settings to increase the delay to pretty much anything. I’m going to set it to 0.2 seconds per frame, with a longer setting for the first and last frame to give people a breather between the start and end of the effect. now my timeline looks like this:

and my gif looks like this!

that works better, i think. the more I’ve made gifs, the more I’ve allowed for pauses and slower animations; when I look back at some of the first ones I did, they feel way too fast. but it’s all up to personal preference, really, so mess around with the settings all you want until you get the vibe that you want.

you can also mess around with opacity. if you want something to fade into the background as it moves, use a white-to-black gradient instead of just stark black or white spaces. if you want the shine to be less prominent (not at all necessary here with such a small effect), change the opacity of the entire layer until it's subtle enough for you.

basically, the world is your oyster, and you can mess around with this as much as you want. this is my method; it does not have to be yours.

I hope this helps! happy making <3

[soufcakmistress]

Charleston Blues

Part II

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

“What you done did to me?” Chantilly examined her naked body with bugged eyes and every question in the world.

(I’ve molded you in my image. There are in fact still a few things that you need.)

Ursilene pointed her way and three separate lengths of waistbeads appeared on Tilly’s body, matching the color of her gown. A gold anklet was magically fastened on her ankle, and Tilly kneeled to rave over the detailing.

(Rise, girl.)

Ursilene was so tall, her head grazed the ceiling. One blink and she decreased in size to look Chantilly right in her eye. Her voice still unnerved Tilly. The way that it vibrated through her chest and resounded through her body; the new connection was powerful and terrifying. Ursilene smiled wide showing her smoke stained teeth and pulled out a tiny gold ring from behind her back.

(Stand still. This will hurt a bit.)

All of Tilly’s limbs were frozen in time as she stood. Her back stood straight as an arrow, with her arms out to her sides. She tried not to whimper but she had no idea what was going on. This being was capable of things that nobody would ever believe. The gold ring unfurled into a straight line, floating about Ursilene’s palm. Lightning fast, the gold ring aimed right for Tilly’s left nipple, piercing her flesh and curled in on itself, securing the perfect circle. Tilly screamed bloody murder, and there was plenty of blood that fell.

“Bitch!!! You couldn’t count or something???? Fuck!!!!!” Blood cascaded down her belly and her mound, and Ursilene released her. Tilly curled into a ball immediately.

(The world you once knew is gone. The woman you once were is dead. You have been burdened with tremendous power. Every sense you invoke, every thought you think, every feeling you experience…..will be heightened. Your physical strength will become overwhelming. Your mental capacity will expand to new depths. Your ability to carry out unthinkable acts in the name of justice will have no limit. Your compassion and patience for women and children will grow and evolve more than you thought possible. Is it starting to make sense?)

Tilly’s whole chest throbbed from the piercing pain. But she sighed sullenly and nodded. The shift had been almost immediate. Her vision was sharper. Each breath radiated through her body differently, almost as if her lung capacity grew. The pain from the piercing began to die down and Tilly dressed herself in a robe. “I would like to be alone. If I have your permission.”

(Take a few days. Feel your way through it. The others did the same. I’m orchestrating some things in the meantime. You will receive a call in two days time that will add to the many changes in your life. The prosperity I promised will be yours. But…..when I call for you….and by now you should know when I’m near…I need all of you.)

Tilly gulped and walked to the window, gazing at the newly manicured yard, with Pepper’s old self sleeping under the Spanish moss tree. No more termite riddled porch. No more cracked windows and raggedy shutters. No more chicken shit littered everywhere. A total turn around from 12 hours ago. “Yes, Ursilene. Understood.”

She disappeared in a cloud of grey smoke leaving the room smelling of incense. Tilly stood starstruck at the idea of a clean slate. Nothing would be the same from here on out. The vanity that used to be ruined now showed a perfect reflection of Tilly’s new appearance. She shed her robe, and looked at herself. Tilly had always been plump and adorable; now she looked like a beautiful subject of a renaissance portrait. Tilly felt more feminine than ever with her long kinky hair flowing as such. The gold jewelry made her feel juicy and luscious and she became aware of the wetness between her legs. Ursilene did say that everything was heightened for her now…

Looking at herself turned her on now. That never happened before. She touched her new nipple ring and circled it, causing the ache to grow in her womb. Tilly covered the soft curl covered mound with her hand and rubbed back and forth. Her face heated up dramatically, and she put her other hand in her hair. These weren’t things that good wholesome young women in 1958 should be doing. Her mother always said her body belonged to God and that masturbation was frowned upon. Is that why it felt so good?

Tilly had never felt such overwhelming pleasure before. She stumbled onto her bed, spreading her legs. Rubbing her clit around in the perfect circle, she pinched her nipple ring, and ascended to a bliss not known to this plane. As she made her way back to Earth, her body was covered in sweat, and her hand was covered in her womanly fluids. “I could get used to this hea’..”

~

“Back it up, back it up. Keep going! Okay, now stop. Perfect.” Erik directed the truck driver into the loading dock behind the store. This heat reminded him of old times and he pulled a bandana from his pocket to swipe his face. Erik Stevens was a Korean War vet who had seen death up close and lived to see another day. His ambitions led him to become one of the first Black commissioned officers for the United States Navy.

Erik knew suffering and pain, and he worked exponentially hard to ensure he didn’t feel that ever again. Orphaned from an early age, he set out on his own in Oakland as a second generation child of the Great Migration.

His father wasn’t American, but his mother was and they worked tirelessly in tandem to give him love and guidance while they were still here. Life had other plans for Erik however.

Erik had always been too smart for his own good. Slick and sly. Cunning and quick. He was 19 when he graduated from MIT, and working as a graduate assistant for the engineering department. It wasn’t enough money for him. Every night after erasing chalk boards and grading exams, he would use every penny he had in the gambling dens of Cambridge.

Italians and Irish in that part of Massachusetts had an alliance to split up the racket. Erik had been making waves amongst certain tables. He loved Blackjack. His math was perfect; he could feel out anything by the odds and win all of his bets. On more than one occasion, Erik would have to fight his way out due to some hating ass white boys that couldn’t stand to be embarrassed. His knuckles were permanently hardened and scarred like his heart and he preferred it that way.

Then the war happened. He was shortly drafted after news of conscription came to Massachusetts. Seven months after basic and specialist training, he would hunt, torture and kill for his country. He started to make a name for himself. Erik rose in the ranks and became a lieutenant for courage and bravery and attained a moniker that’ll follow him to the grave. Killmonger.

The blockade of Wonsan allowed him to garner medal after medal. Due to his vigorous show of enthusiasm, he had been selected for a ghost unit to infiltrate the Korean shores against the North Korean army. For every kill, he would slash his flesh as a reminder of the life taken and maybe also for the life that seeped out of him.

After the armistice, the Americans went home. But not all of them. Erik was able to receive the Medal of Honor and an honorable discharge with excellent service after the war and stayed overseas. America could be useful in the future but Korea had sights and wonders foreign to him that magnetized him to the peninsula.

Erik had several ins with artillery specialists from his navy days that he kept in touch with. He had a pristine system in place. Decommissioned weapons that “fell” off military utility vehicles made their ways to three separate warehouses he owned in Seoul, Busan and Kwangyang. The American was making money hand over fist selling black market arms to the highest bidder. He encountered all types and drowned in Korean pussy to ease his long days.

One auspicious day, Erik got caught fuckin with the wrong pussy, slaying some South Korean big shot’s mistress in his Busan office. How could he not resist? She looked innocent and yet had an endless throat that he couldn’t resist. By the time the goons infiltrated the warehouse, his cum was in her stomach. She turned around and pushed her panties to the side to take all of what Erik had to give, until a bullet whizzed past her.

Erik was able to get some shots off before he got his pants up his legs. But there were too many of them. He had already sent his team home for the night to have some alone time and someone had the jump on him. They swarmed the office with machine guns at the ready. The Korean boss stepped into Erik’s office, stoic and calm. In a last ditch effort, Erik pointed the gun at the mistress, threatening to end it all. “Take another step and you’re gonna be dry cleaning her fucking brain matter off your suit.”

He did Erik the favor of blowing her head off himself. Another two quick shots in Erik’s shoulder made his legs fall out from underneath him. There was a trap door under his desk and he immediately began to crawl to it in agonizing pain. He didn’t make it. The boss stood over Erik, and cracked a smile. Then, from his sleeve he pulled out an impossibly sharp and slender knife, gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

Quicker than Erik could blink, the knife pierced his stomach seven times. Blood bubbled up his esophagus and coated his teeth instantly. The boss cursed Erik as he bled out and left him to die.

Erik managed to pull himself up against the wall, wheezing a bit harder, holding his side. He started to laugh at his circumstances. He had it coming. If it wasn’t him, it was the next boss whose wife he was fucking or finessed the deal on.

It seemed that at every point of his life, he courted death. It was the only constant thing in his life. So he wasn’t scared. He actually felt a bit of relief. His resignation truly set in when he began to gasp for air, and he could hardly hold his arm up to compress his wound.

The lights began to flicker. The file cabinets in his office rattled. Erik’s ears began to ring and what appeared to be falling through the ceiling looked to be a man. Their forearms and biceps were massive and rippled with muscle. He wore a caftan draped over one of his shoulders unlike any pattern Erik had ever seen. His skin was dark grey, with three vertical slashes along his forehead and golden irises.

(Your lack of discernment has led you here. Your lack of foresight has led you here. I have never seen a man act with such willful disregard for their life. Or others for that matter. In 120 seconds, your body will shut down from the lack of blood. Do you want to live?)

His life was flashed before his eyes immediately like a picture show. Before he dedicated his life to the underworld, Erik was a stand up guy, who had brief walks on the wild side. Erik cared about people. And then his heart was ripped out and he didn’t care to regain it. He cried softly. The being waited patiently until he was done. Their presence comforted Erik. “Maybe I don’t deserve to.”

(I am called Badoru. I have roamed this plane for millennia working to cleanse this planet of all evil that inhibit it. I will save your life. If you serve me, and promise not to lay a hand on anyone who did not harm or threaten you or your charges first.)

“My charges? What do I—“ Erik coughed up more blood and slid further down the wall. Tears of exhaustion flowed from his bloodshot eyes.

(I am a god of many things. Virility, strength, war, and death. I am also the watcher of new life. Any child born on this plane is covered by my protection and any harm is dealt without mercy. Which is how I found you. Erik Stevens, you may have substantial material wealth but you revel in an impoverished mind state. Accept my will and your days shall be long with joy.)

That was five years ago when Erik submitted to the will of his new god. Badoru showed him that Charleston was where his work was needed next. Still able to charm the best of them, Erik was able to get his hands on a heap of military surplus. Badoru blessed him with a business right on the low end of King Street, where the colored folks usually shopped.

At his behest, Erik took those weapons and brought them back to the states. Jim Crow was alive and well. Violence was rampant in segregated Charleston, and he wanted to make sure his community was armed. Erik would sell military surplus by day and sell weapons in the back by night.

~

“Well that’s just wonderful news. Thank you, thank you!”

This was it. The call that Ursilene told Tilly would come. The grain mill where her father worked on Edisto Island for all them years called to let Tilly know that there was a sizable pension check waiting for her to claim. $50,000. She damn near fainted when they said the number. Tilly had been skeptical these two days that passed but she sure shut up quick after this.

After the check was procured, as soon as she stepped off the boat back to Johns Island, Ursilene summoned her immediately. Tilly was a bit more adept at handling the visceral symptoms now.

(Return to your home at once. I will instruct you further once you promptly arrive.)

Tilly raced home from the docks and situated herself in front of the vanity. Sea foam green smoke blew in from a cracked window and Ursilene sat right next to her on the vanity chaise.

(Did I deliver like I said I would?)

“Yes yes yes Ursilene. I thank you. I thank you so much. I can hardly believe it!” Tilly blabbered like a kid who got the last piece of candy.

(Now, your bakery is in within your grasp. You shall have the finest for your space, I will see to it. Furthermore……I hope you are prepared.)

Tilly stiffened up and shook her head positively like a puppy. She wasn’t sure what to expect. But she made a blood oath that she couldn’t take back; she had to see this through.

One wave of Ursilene’s hand, and the mirror whirled counterclockwise into a viewing bubble of some sort.

(Little Marla. 13 years old. An 8th grader whose parents died tragically and is now living among several other girls at the Jenkins Institute. She loves music and listening to the radio. Her best friend, Sheila, loves to do hair and they practice on each other. They both have taken a liking to biology. Sweet girl.)

Tilly watches the young Black girl smooth out her poodle skirt and straighten up her white socks. The orphanage had a uniform, and Marla liked to look her best. She pulled her sleeve down and hissed at the bruise. The girl only looked for a second more before her friend realized her pain and continued to get ready for class. Tilly’s blood quickened at the very sight of her pain. Who hurt this beautiful child?

Ursilene snapped and what appeared to be a church’s pulpit showed up in the mirror. The pastor—tall, lanky, salt and pepper hair, and ruddy red skin—was named Dunne. Theodore Dunne had been pastor at Second Presbyterian Church for almost seven years now. A devoted husband and father, he dedicated his life to outreach, especially to children.

(Pastor Dunne. He has a ministry at his church specifically tailored to minister for Children’s outreach. They frequent the Jenkins Institute three times a month to bring donations and food drive items raised by the congregation. However, Pastor Dunne has an affliction even his word can’t heal.)

Ursilene flashed several scenes of ghastly scenes of Pastor Dunne inappropriately groping and grasping Marla, her face full of tears. Tilly’s ire grew so. She began to grip the vanity chaise, ripping the cushion from the legs of the chair. When Marla would fight back, he would get violent with her. Her shoulder had been dislocated before.

(Theodore’s day of reckoning is overdue. Hand her justice, Chantilly. Eviscerate him. Remove him from this plane of existence. And restore balance.)

No sooner had she said that, did Tilly have a plan. It’s never too late to gain some religion, right?

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[fatefulfaerie]

Could I have a tiny little sequel to Written in the Stars? It's my fav fic of yours! 🥰

Thank you!!

Sequel to Written In The Stars

This was not the knight he had assigned to his daughter a hundred years prior.

In a purely physical and technical sense, of course it was. The same hair, the same build, the same steadfast courage and resolve. Yet, this Link seemed to be a slate wiped clean, blue eyes emoting curiosity and intrigue as the King detailed Hyrule's past. Nothing seemed to ring a bell, and the innocent blue stare couldn't help but make the King feel for his daughter. A hundred years and all her father could give her was another soldier, another weapon. And even worse, this young man bared painful resemblance to the one she once fell in love with. Hylia, it was the young man she once fell in love with. Yet her name inspired nothing special in his blue eyes.

Link would break her heart, the King feared as he dissipated to allow the amnesia-ridden hero to continue on his journey.

The next time he saw Link was once all had been set right, him and Zelda at the base of Hyrule Castle walking away from all they had ever known, and into a future Zelda only seemed sad about. The King had never felt more powerless.

The silence between two people he knew were once lovers eroded at his not-beating heart. He found he could not move on like the champions until this was resolved, this guilt, this knowledge. Yet was there too much damage done? Was Zelda's happiness lost?

Zelda stopped in her tracks, and Link noticed after only a couple steps that she was no longer matching his stride. Rising petals and soft gales lifted his hair gently as he quietly looked at her with concern.

"Your Highness?" Link asked. "Is there something wrong?"

Zelda hesitated, her eyes tremulous and uncertain as she silently begged Link to know without her saying.

"I asked the wrong question before," she clarified. "I asked if you remember me."

Link nodded.

"And I do," he said, far more forward with his words than he ever was.

Zelda clutched her elbow and looked down in shame. Obviously he didn't, at least not to the extent she wanted, the moment in the Library, the dance at the ball, their kiss at the spring, their confessions of love, the note Link wrote Zelda about there one day being a time for them.

"Do you remember us?" Zelda braved, and indeed her heart broke when she looked up to see Link not say an immediate response in the affirmative. He noticeably flushed, and looked absolutely bewildered.

"There..." Link tried to breathe. "There was an us?"

Zelda closed and opened her eyes with a sharp sigh, wishing to go back just a few minutes and tell herself not to bring it up. She should have known better. If he felt anything, he would have made it clear from the first moments of Hyrule being free from Calamity Ganon. Zelda's smile was soft and yet pained. She nodded.

"It is a different circumstance now, it seems," she said, summoning every last bit of formality she had left in her blood and walking forward and past Link as if the entire conversation had never happened.

"Onto Kakariko, correct?" she asked, but Link grabbed her wrist as she passed.

"What are you doing?" She asked with a furrowed brow and a judgemental look at their connection. She tried to break free until she was enthralled by the sincerity in Link's eyes.

"Zelda," he said timidly, as if he wasn't sure he could. "Zelda," he said again with a smile, as if he loved saying it. Her eyes locked into his and she listened.

"I don't remember anything between us," he started, "but Zelda you have no idea how much I wanted to read it in between the lines."

Zelda tried to breathe. Did she just hear that right?

"I can't put a finger on the love I feel for you," Link continued. "I can't pinpoint when it started to a certain moment, a certain century, or even a certain millennium. All I know is that right here, right now, I love you. And I don't want you mistaking my uncertainty over the past as a lack of regard for you."

Zelda found herself stunned as Link let her wrist go, her arm drifting down to her side. Link thought she might object to his forwardness when she took his cheeks hostage and hurled her lips into his. Link closed his eyes to relish in the moment, and his smile made the exchange appropriately imperfect. She smiled too, and her laugh interrupted the kiss. She didn't care. They had what seemed like an eternity of freedom to express their love.

Link spun her around and let her collapse into a hug. He held the back of her head gently and cried tears of relief as the last of the turquoise flames disappeared from the highest spire of Hyrule Castle.