Gilear Faeth 🤝 Lucifer Hazbinhotel
Divorced absolute losers who really love their daughter and want nothing more than to build a better relationship with her.
(Yogurt is to Gilear as ducks are to Lucifer)
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[Image Description: Digital fan art of Prince Sidon from Legend of Zelda. His eyes are locked with the viewer's, and he's grinning widely with excitement and determination. He's nude, and flexing his muscular left arm over his chest, cutting off the rest of his body so that only his arm, chest, and face are visible. A tiny set of sparkles radiate off his face. He's illuminated from above and to the right by off-screen sunlight, and set against a splotchy, sparkly blue and yellow background. The artist's signature, CLOPSE in all caps, is printed above his head. / end Image Description]
so im back on my zelda bullshit and uhh
sorry everyone this is a sidon fanblog now
also im very new at writing image descriptions so please feel free to critique, im not sure what the right balance is between straightforward description and artistic flair
i tend towards over-indulgence when it comes to writing so let me know if thats whats happening or if i was too restrained or any other issue please and thank u <3
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it towers above into the bloodstained distance lightning in its jaw as it bares its teeth at another in the distance, crackling with wasted energy, legs groaning with effort as it writhes against scarlet bonds from the earth. a creature, trapped. a monolith, bound. a modern tower of babel, lights aglow like stars in the endless red of the sky.
the air crackles with caged lightning. wasted, but beautiful, like fireworks before the long night soaring into black before bursting in a gorey shower of sparks. the machine purrs under my hands, servos groaning at the minute sensation that still registers to sensors meant to track every last human on board, even on the back of a beast the size of a human to a fly, metal not even able to twitch at the touch of a fly it is kind enough to not swat.
and it could swat: every last inch of it is peppered with weaponry, a thousand sights could be trained on me before i could even realise. but it does not. it lets me rest my hand on a petty few centimeters of its flank, to feel the vibrations of its every movement through my own flesh.
i know this, deep as the marrow in my bones:
it lives.
and it wants.
war-ready metal does not pry apart easily, even with the assistance of hammer and screwdriver, but i am determined: skin will be pried away even no matter how much it takes. no security system is activated as i drive the head of the screwdriver beneath metal plating with a hammer; no turret comes to life with me in its sights as my hands peel away the skin one i have enough for a handhold.
it wants this. it want this as much as i want to do it, to be peeled apart, laid open beneath loving hands that will worship every bloodied piece like the frayed threads of god itself.
the skin is tossed aside, a shell outgrown as it clatters to the grating behind me, something to be - not forgotten, but honoured, remembered for what is was part of and preserved.
but what it preserved, what it hid: a rainbow of wires, live nerves liable to set every last fibre of my own alike with a misplaved touch. the rubbery, pumping hydraulics like the vessels of a heart the size of a room. deeper, deeper still, the warm metal muscles beneath, bound by hellish roots in the earth and yet still twitching, jumping, desperate to carve furrows into the ground and charge for its foe.
every inch of it is beautiful - no, just the tiny piece ive been allowed to see is a beauty greater than any mortal masterpiece. what is the mother and child to the tapestry beneath my fingers? what is the coming of aphrodite to the machine that looms above me, a towering monument to man's greatest war that carried the last refuges of humanity on its back as it walked almost-eternal in the sun?
a hydraulic tube pulses as the leg im standing on twitches, grinding motors above and below as it helplessly tries to force itself free. as if my possessed i reach out, one hand wrapping around the pulsing vein before me and squeezing ever so slightly - too little strength to constrict, but enough to feel the liquid move under my fingers. alive. blood, rushing through vessels as the machine vents hot air and howls fury at its fellow in the distance.
it lives. it lives.
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