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coldfanbou · 7 months

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Purification or Desecration

Day 10! So funny thing I got multiple requests of Nun sana so I combined them a bit. Anyway, Sana can't stop herself in this fic

Length 2.1K

Sana X mreader

“What is wrong, my child?” The feminine voice asks from the other side of the confessional. As of late, you’ve been having impure thoughts about the community’s favorite nun, Sana. You decided to come to confess it in the church.

“Um, well…I-I’ve been having impure thoughts lately.”

“Do not worry, my child. I will not cast judgment upon you. You are free to speak.” The voice says.

“Well, I’ve been having these impure and sexual thoughts about Sister Sana. I know it’s wrong, but I just feel these urges when I look at her. I’m sorry for these and all my sins.”

“I- well, that is certainly not what I expected. I suggest you speak to sister Sana personally. I’m sure she’ll be able to provide you with more guidance and grant you freedom from your urges.” The person responds.

You give the person a small thanks before leaving the booth and heading home. You would speak to Sana the next day, hoping to fix your feelings about her. After waiting a few until you were gone to step out, Sana came out of the other side of the booth. She looks around nervously before leaving the area as a whole.

The next night, you came to her. "Sister, I have something to speak to you about. May I come in?"

"You may," Sana says as she steps aside, allowing you into her abode. There were no religious figures in your small village until a couple of months ago when nine sisters came in. They helped lead the village now. "What seems to be the problem, young man?"

"I- um," you gulp; seeing Sana up close brings your impure thoughts to the forefront. You stand silently, staring at Sana. Though her clothes conceal much of her body, they clung to her in just a way that brought those thoughts to you. Sana looks at you; as more time passes in silence, she asks her question again. "I-I've been having impure thoughts about you, sister. I was told to come to you to talk about it."

"I see; come take a seat." She says, walking a few steps to her bed. She pats the space next to her. "Tell me more about these impure thoughts."

"It’s a bit embarrassing sister." You say, sitting next to her.

"Then tell me where these impure thoughts impact you most."

"I can't."

"It’s okay. Show me if you need to." You hesitantly take Sana's hand and place it on your crotch, where a bulge has developed. “I-I see, they’ve progressed further than I thought. As a sister, it is my duty to aid you.” Sana takes a deep breath; she had been taught this when she became a sister. Her life before she became a sister was spent sleeping around, constantly hungry for sex. She already knew how to use her body, but to have to use her skills now that she’d become a sister was going to be a challenge. Sana took another deep breath; her actions now would be to aid a member of the church, not to give herself pleasure. “I can aid you in dispelling these impure thoughts. P-please take off your pants.” You feel stunned at her words, but considering her position, you trust her. You stand and take off your pants, freeing your bulge. Sana was stunned by your cock; it had been years since she’s seen one, and she felt her loins start burning. As you sit back down, Sana places her hand on your cock. “Please relax and let me take care of you.” You feel Sana’s grip on your shaft; it’s firm, yet she’s putting little strength into it. Her small, soft hand begins to slide along your shaft. You tilt your head back and groan as you feel her hand rub against the head. “You can release your impurities at any time; try not to hold on to it.” She says, continuing to move her hand along your shaft. You close your eyes and focus on the sensation.

Sana unconsciously licks her lips and stares at your cock as precum starts to flow from it and cover her hand. Her free hand begins to move to her crotch, but Sana manages to stop herself. She continues stroking your cock, keeping a constant speed that makes you near your climax. “Sister, I think it’s coming.”

“Let it out, let it all out.” She says; Sana feels her mouth become wet as she hungers for your cum. A few moments later, you cum on her hand; your impurities cover Sana’s hand as she strokes your cock. Sana leans forward but quickly stops. You start to shrink in her hand, and Sana pulls away from you. “It seems like they’ve gone away. Sana says with a forced smile. If you continue to have this problem, come to me. I’ll help you with it; just come to me at night.” You nod your head and pull your pants up before leaving. Sana goes to the bathroom and turns the water on. As she’s about to wash her hands, she stops, staring at the cum on her stained hand. She brings it up to her nose and smells it. It’s intoxicating to her, and Sana slips her fingers into her mouth, tasting the salty liquid and moaning before realizing what she’s doing and washing her hands. She splashes her face, trying to clear her head of the thoughts she’s having.

The next day, you feel much better and can go about your tasks, but the following day, you struggle after seeing Sana and have to visit her again. This becomes a routine for you; every other day, you go to Sana to be purified, and she does her best every day. Until one day, Sana says the problem needs to be solved another way. In truth, she was being broken down by giving you those hand jobs. The cum you would leave on her hand would no longer be washed away. She would drink it all, always wanting more. “I fear that you’re impurities will not go away so easily. I will have to take further measures. Please drop your pants.” You do as told and sit down next to Sana. “Please lay down and spread your legs just a bit.” You follow the new instructions. Sana gets between your legs, “Please relax as usual.” Sana inches closer to your cock; she grasps it in her hand and strokes it until it is fully hardened. For a moment, she thinks about her vow to the church and considers how her actions would be seen. This was breaking protocol, but Sana knew she could say it was part of her duty. That was what she told herself. As she stroked your cock, she felt her mouth become full of saliva. She was practically drooling. She presses her lips against the head and swallows it. You moan loudly; her mouth was warm and wet; as she took more of your cock in, you could feel her tongue run along the underside. A gently sucking sensation brings you great pleasure; when Sana’s tongue swirls around your shaft, you can’t help but let out another moan. Sana's mind becomes mush as she gets her first taste of your cock. She bobs her head quickly, taking more and more of you in each time. Once she reaches your base and feels your cock hit the back of her throat, her eyes roll into the back of her head. She continues like a mindless zombie, only coming back when she feels your cock throbbing in her throat.

“Sister, they’re coming.” You moan. A second later, you release your cum into Sana’s throat, pouring it into her. She happily drinks it, not missing a drop. She pulls out slowly, her tongue swirling along your shaft, gathering any drop she may have missed. She wipes her mouth, “I think we may need to have you come in more often. You seem to have a lot of impurities in your body. If things get any worse, drastic measures must be taken.” Sana would continue to give you blowjobs nearly every day, relishing her job and slowly returning to her previous state. Yet somehow, she managed to keep herself from moving on to sex for some time. She knew in the back of her mind she could never justify that action, but the more cum she drank, the less she began to care. She spent her nights alone, fingering herself until the early dawn, until she would have to bathe and then put on her robes and act like a pious woman.

Nights would go on like that until you met Sana one morning. “Excuse me, sister.”

“Yes? Are you having problems?”

“I-um am. Is it possible that you cleanse me tonight?”

“Hmm, You seem to constantly be in need despite our methods. I believe drastic measures are needed.” Sana says without a second thought. It’s only after her words that she considers the actions she’s taken. She thinks to herself that she can’t cross that barrier, but then her mind is flooded by the memories of her previous life, of the pleasure she once had.

“Thank you, sister. I shall meet you tonight.” Sana nods and continues with her tasks. Reaching a place where she can be alone, Sana rubs her crotch before stopping herself again. She grows frustrated and knows she’s losing the battle. She heads to the church to pray for the rest of the day. As men come and go, she can think of nothing else but what they could do to her and the pleasure they could give her. She could not clear her mind.

That night, when you came into Sana’s abode, she had you wait on her bed, telling you the treatment would require you to be naked. While she went to the bathroom, you did as you were told. Inside, her mind was beyond what would be done if anyone found out she could no longer resist her urges. When she came back, Sana was standing there naked. You got hard immediately. Sana's body was toned; her breasts were perky and of good size. Your eyes travel downward, and you see how wet she is. “Sister?”

“Lay back and relax; this treatment requires the utmost care.” Sana climbs onto the bed and crawls toward you. She straddles you, placing your cock between her folds and your stomach. “Let me do the work. Relax.” She says as she moves her hips, your cock slides between her lips, slowly being coated in her nectar. “Mmm, I think this is going to work,” Sana says, trying to hide her moans. You groan, and Sana moves on to the next part. She lifts herself and positions your cock against her; she sinks onto it slowly. “Ahh, nearly there.” She moans as she reaches your base. With your cock buried inside Sana, she smiles. Sana revels in the feeling of being filled. She remembers just how much she loved sex. She starts to move immediately, bouncing on your cock. Her modest breasts bounce along with her; she takes your hands and places them on her breasts. “Release everything you have into me. I’ll purify you,” She moans. You moan loudly, feeling Sana’s wall massage your cock as she bounces on you. You knead her breasts; the pleasure shoots through Sana’s body. She slams herself on your cock, whispering, “I’m going to cum.”

Having been so long, Sana was sensitive and was nearing her climax already. She continues to bounce on your cock, enjoying every moment. She buries your cock in her as she comes crashing down. She cums on your cock; you feel her walls clamp down on you. The tightness of her cunt brings you closer to your own orgasm. “Sister, it’s coming.”

“Let it out inside me; give me it all!” Sana screams as she starts moving again; she’s more sensitive now. Every time your cock rams against her womb, Sana feels another orgasm course through her body, wracking it with pleasure. The constant tightness makes you cum, and you spill your impurities into Sana. Sana throws her head back and moans loudly; her walls milk you dry as she rocks her hips. “So much inside.” Sana moans with a satisfied smile on her face.

The door to Sana’s home busts open, “We heard screaming; what’s wrong?” The other sisters stand in the doorway along with the other villagers; they look at the two of you in shock. Sana defended you, saying she was curing you of your impurities. Despite the others telling you she was lying, you believed the sister and were banished from the village alongside her. The two of you managed to survive building your home far from anyone, where the two of you would go at it night and day. Sana claimed she was purifying you. You believed her lies for the rest of your days with her.

#kpop smut #male reader #m reader #twice smut #sana smut

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inkykeiji · 18 days

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⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you

character: alastor warnings: 18+ for mature themes (no smut) minors do not interact, fem!reader, pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (possessiveness; reader is nothing more than a silly little doll for alastor to play dress up with), implied size difference, a hint of blood words: 1.1k

Alastor is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He has his daily rituals, his rigorous schedules, his lists of tasks, all performed to perfection each and every day.

And Alastor likes to begin his mornings in a very specific way.

You know the procedure by now inside out, upside down, could recite it backwards, if he so desired you to.

By the time he wakes you, he’s already laid out your outfit for the day; intimates, dress, socks, accessories, all spread in an immaculate flat lay on his seldom-used bedspread.

You are always expected to adorn yourself with the garments he’s selected, to pull on each and every piece all on your own, fabrics lovingly caressing your exposed flesh as his gaze slithers after the material, leaving burning smudges on your skin.

But, of course, you can never do it all completely right—not like Master can.

Because it always ends the same, this little morning sacrament: with Alastor fussing over you—straightening out a bow, smoothing out a wrinkle, tugging up a sock, readjusting a sleeve.

There is always something wrong he has to fix, to make perfect.

And the finishing touch, the finishing touch is always for Master to add.

A leather collar, as red as his eyes and adorned with a heart-shaped tag, his name in an elegant scrawl engraved in the platinum. He’s always so tender when he fastens it around your neck, after he has thoroughly approved of your dressing for the day, more tender than you’d ever thought him capable of; more tender than he ever is otherwise.

It’s all just another way he claims you, degrades you, announces that you are his—his to decorate, his to desecrate, his to do whatever the fuck he wants with you.

That pretty little silver heart that rests so daintily against your clavicle, that rises and falls and glitters with each of your gentle breaths, will never let you forget that.

Today, as it is with most days, he has chosen a white colour palette.

Sitting in his usual armchair with his legs crossed, folded hands resting in his lap, he watches as you undress in front of him, left vulnerable and raw to his gluttonous glare. It stings, his gaze razored and slitting into your skin, prickling as it rakes over your unprotected form, leaving you feeling hypersensitive, overexposed, like he’s stripped away some fundamental layer and left you barer than bare.

Yet to the untrained eye, he would appear only mildly interested, possibly even teetering on indifferent, but you know him better than that.

You are not the untrained eye—not anymore.

You know that the glowing in his gaze is brighter, bolder and more brilliant than normal as he sharply catalogues every action—pretty silk slipped off, dainty lace sliding on.

You know that his pupils are abnormally large, having gnawed away at his irises in their attempt to consume the scene in front of him—a scene he’s witnessed a hundred times before; a scene he never tires of nonetheless.

You know that his smile, usually sharp and stretched, is a little bit softer around the edges, a little bit sweeter as it seals hungry teeth behind curled lips.

His chest swells and deflates with calm, even breaths, his unblinking gaze holding yours for a moment—in, out, in, out—and you stand still as a statue, waiting.

Such a good little pet he’s got himself.

He lets the moment linger for a little, basks in the exquisiteness of your obedience, allows that sweet suffocation of your compliance to grow until it’s nearly unbearable, until you’re struggling to keep stationary under his unrelenting stare, until the weight of it is crushing, compressing your ribs, flattening your lungs as you anticipate his approval.

Finally, he nods, and then, you begin.

First, the intimates; pure snow-white lace encrusted with tiny crystals, dainty material skimming your flesh in a faint caress, clinging to your supple curves as you fasten hooks and adjust waistbands.

Next, an ivory milkmaid dress, complete with cinched puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, the corset top outlining the natural lines and bends of your torso, skirt flaring slightly at the hips and flowing into loose pleats around your thighs. Little white flowers detail the garment, embroidered in silk across the linen, blooming with each of your graceful inhales.

Then, a pair of white thigh-high nylons to garnish the outfit, adorned with tiny white polkadots, sleek and sheer as they hug your legs.

He doesn’t miss the ripple of chills that follow after his eyes as they glide up your body, trailing the curled knuckles hooked in the band of your stockings. Nor does he miss the delicate shiver that dances up your spine, or the tensing of your muscles as you linger in limbo beneath his stare, anticipating his next order.

No, he witnesses it all.

And he smirks, huffing out an airy snort, your frame flinching with the sound.

“Does my gaze make you uncomfortable, dear?”

“No, Sir, of course not,” you respond immediately; well-trained, obedient.

“No? Then why has your body gone rigid beneath my eyes?”

“I just—” you begin, faltering a little, a small frown on your face.

Suddenly, he rises, stalking toward you calmly, both hands clasped behind his back. That infamous collar, held securely in his grasp, jingles with each of his steps, such a delicate sound for something so sinister.

Stopping an inch or two from your face, your head snaps up, the motion instinctual, eyes wide and subservient—searching for guidance, awaiting your orders like the good little girl you are.

A palm wreathes around your jaw, points of his claws pressing into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, revelling in the soft pained yelp that hitches in your throat, tangling on a gasp.

“Do you feel like a piece of meat, on display for your owner?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

Crimson searches your face, slow and scrutinizing, lids narrowing slightly as his smile sharpens.

“Nothing more than a pretty little prize to be paraded around on my arm, proudly and in public?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Leaning down, he grinds his forehead into your own, inhibiting your gaze from fleeing his, neck bent at an unnatural angle as he looms over you. He stares at you for a moment, scarlet so bright it hurts to look directly into, so brilliant you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blotting your vision when you finally look away, but you don’t dare to blink.

Slim fingers flex around your jaw, tightening, and his claws pierce your cheeks—shallow little pricks that’ll be unnoticeable in a few minutes, dots of blood rushing to fill the tiny dents. His tongue laves over each in a single, slow drag, wide and wet as it cleans the wounds and streaks his tastebuds with copper, sealing them with a thick salve of saliva before pulling away.

“Good,” he finally murmurs, the word a puff of breath wafting across your face, warm and woodsy. “Because you are. And Master likes for his things to look presentable.”

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #alastor smut #alastor headcanons #inky.alastor #inky.hazbin

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thecooler · 4 months

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Landmine

Wake had rules of engagement when it came to dealing with any of the Emperor’s favorite minions— his specialist little zombies— lyctors. Those rules of engagement were as follows: 1. Do not fucking engage 2. If you somehow end up doing that, give them hell.

Words: 5,213

Relationships: Gideon the First/Commander Wake/Pyrrha Dve, Commander Wake & Our Lady of the Passion

Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Enemies and Lovers, Non-Explicit Sex, Fighting and Fucking and Fighting as Fucking

Written for the TLT Holiday Gift Exchange on ao3, also my first work in the fandom so you gotta be nice :P

AO3 Mirror

Commander Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity was born in the pile of smouldering ashes that was the Blood of Eden. When she was very small, her mother told her stories about what they used to be, back in her grandmother’s day, and how the zombies and wizards had overwhelmed them with their numbers and their tricks, how her grandmother, her uncles, and countless more had been killed and had their bodies desecrated and turned into fuel with which to kill their brethren. She told her that one day, they would rise from the ashes, and triumph, and Wake believed that with her whole wretched heart.

When she was twelve, she held a gun for the first time. Her little calloused fingers fit around the grip like they were meant to be there. She raised her shaky hand, guided by her elder sister, God Shall Be My Hope. Their mother had been blown apart from the inside by a wizard, her parts too small and burnt to bear any resemblance to the person she once was. The Nine Houses, as it always did, reduced people to tools of war, and her mother was in the right place and the right time to become a bomb. It wouldn’t happen like that to her.

“I’m gonna bring us back,” she said, a few years later, when she was old enough to know that the Blood of Eden was operating like shit, but not old enough to know how to fix it. She said, “like we used to be, before they found that base and wrecked our shit.”

She remembered that Hope looked tired, and a bit scared. She always looked tired— bucking up at the age of fifteen and raising your sister did that to a girl. The fear was new, though. She said, “I don’t want you to go out like mom, Wake.”

Wake slid the magazine back into the pistol and smiled a nasty, curling, bitter smile, “Not up to me, but let me tell ya’— if I’m going out, I’m taking as many zombies as I can down with me. They’re gonna remember me, and even when I’m dead, my name’s gonna scare the piss out of them.”

Her sister said, “I hope you’re right.”

Ten years after that, Wake was a Wing Commander, and things were starting to go right. She knew how to hold any gun without shaking and without hesitating. She knew how a zombie’s eyes looked when light left them, and she knew more than anyone that they weren’t unkillable.

Her sister, meanwhile, was dying in childbirth on a shitty patch of dirt that the Houses’ God had long since forgotten. Wake made herself stay by her side and listen to her howls of pain. They didn’t have any anesthetic or morphine— their stores had been sacked by a drove of Cohort pigs not even a week ago. Wake was on fire. She was red-hot furious. Hope was dying— fucking hell— and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

She said, “Save her, save her. I don’t fucking care about kid.”

Her sister wailed and clawed at her arm and hair and she said, “No, don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”

But in the end neither of them really had much of a say in the matter. Hope died with a name on her lips, and Wake, who had never wanted to be a mother, gave it to the newborn Our Lady of the Passion, and did what her sister had all those years ago— she loved that shitty kid as best as she could.

---

Wake had rules of engagement when it came to dealing with any of the Emperor’s favourite minions— his specialist little zombies— lyctors. Those rules of engagement were as follows:

1. Do not fucking engage

2. If you somehow end up doing that, give them hell

The Commander had not woken up that day with the notion that she’d be toe-to-toe with a lyctor. But here she was, boots scraping up hard-packed red earth as she danced around one of their rapiers.

“You look like a pussy, fighting with that thing,” she snarled.

And the zombie smiled. Deep brown eyes crinkled around the edges, and stark white teeth peeked out through dark lips. Infuriatingly, it was devastatingly handsome. This realization slapped her across the face, and she thought, distantly, if I get out of this thing, I need to get laid ASAP.

It smiled, and then it pulled a spear out of the rigid corpse of one of its comrades and lunged towards Wake. The speed of it might have been impressive, if the asshole wasn’t literally bringing knives to a gun fight. She raised her pistol to block the spearhead before it made contact with her chest plate. The gun clattered on the ground behind them, and without looking, Wake leaped into a back handspring and kicked the pistol back into her grip. The zombie was looking at her with what she thought might be genuine awe, but she didn’t allow herself to ruminate on it. They’d been going at this for nearly an hour. She was running on fumes, and she had to finish this.

She flung herself forward, dancing around the lunge of the spear. She shot the hand that held it, then spun and kicked the steel toe of her boot into the joint of the opposite wrist. She smiled a wicked, feral grin at the sound of both weapons clattering to the floor.

She stood, breathing heavily, looking into deep brown eyes. In another life, she might have described them as warm. In this life, she shoved the barrel of one gun between them, and the other under its breast, where its heart would be.

She hesitated only for a moment, and in that moment, the zombie that she would come to know as Pyrrha Dve made a choice that would haunt her to her dying breath and beyond. She leaned forward and captured her dry, split, lonely lips in a kiss. She raised her dark, blood-stained hands and cradled her face with an alien softness.

Wake bit her. She clamped down hard on the zombie’s bottom lip until blood bloomed on her tongue, and then they broke apart, and the Emperor’s hand smiled, torn lip trickling blood down her chin. She said, “I’m sorry, destroy me as I am, but I wanted to kiss you before you killed me.”

Wake should have killed her then and there. She should have blown her head and chest apart and burned the bits of flesh and viscera that remained. Instead, she said, “Why the fuck would you want that?”

And the zombie laughed again, and again Wake didn’t take the opportunity to tear her heart out. She smiled a soft, destructive smile, and said to Wake, “I’ve only once met someone so willing to burn for what they believed in, and I loved him on sight. Commander, the first time I died, I asked of him what I ask of you now,” she pressed a calloused hand again to Wake’s face, and it was horribly warm. Those terrible dark eyes met hers, and she said, “make it quick.”

Then she kissed Wake again, and again, and again. And Wake didn’t kill her that day.

---

Wake ended up meeting Pyrrha one other time before she met the other one. This was a good thing, because if she hadn’t had the heads up she might have ripped his dick clean off. Pyrrha was bleeding from thick, deep cuts on her exposed biceps and throat, her breaths coming out as sharp, desperate wheezing. Her immortal blood seeped through Wake’s fingers same as any soldier, same as a dog bleeding out on the side of the road. Wake pressed down harshly on her throat with the butt of her pistol and hiked her knee up between the other woman’s legs.

“Hard already, Dve?” she taunted, then snorted when all Pyrrha could do was let out a low whine.

“Shit, baby,” Pyrrha said, fear creeping into her words.

Wake was no one’s baby. She leaned forward and sunk her teeth into thin cartilage, and tore off the tip of her lover’s ear with her teeth. She spat the severed flesh on the grimy, stained floor of the shuttle and looked at Pyrrha’s eyes.

No.

No, Pyrrha’s eyes were a warm, deep brown. The eyes that she was looking into now were a clear green, alarmed, confused, and still a bit horny.

Wake smiled, her lips curling, “Hello, Gideon,” she purred, jerking her knee against his half-hard cock. “How are you feeling?” and she slipped her gun into her holster and unsheathed her well-used knife. Without preamble, she thrust the blade between his ribs.

He howled out in pain, strong, calloused hands scrambling at her shoulders. But, notably, he didn’t push Wake away. Instead, between panting breaths, he said, “Who the hell are you?”

Wake leaned in close to his still-bleeding ear and whispered, “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

---

Long, long before she was born— long enough that it had long since faded into legend, a Lyctor had made contact with the Blood of Eden. Referred to only as Source Gram. She, allegedly, hailed from the Sixth House, and, even more dubiously, aided her ancestors in the beginnings of their movement. But nothing of the sort had happened since, and Lyctors had become the villains of legend. Many thought that they were immortal, and that they would be the death of them. They were something to be avoided at all cost.

But she knew she could not keep her knowledge of Pyrrha and Gideon from her people, and more than that, she didn’t want to. They could be of use to the Blood of Eden— invaluable even. And so she called her Wing Commanders together, and told them she had something important to discuss.

She told the Blood of Eden, “I have a source in the houses,” and the room went silent. Expectant gazes fell on her, and for the first time in a long time, Wake felt nervous. She tilted her chin up and hoped she could project confidence. “I believe,” she said, “that I’ve gained the trust of one of John Gaius’ hands.”

Her breathing felt impossibly loud. Then, We Suffer breathed out slowly, locked eyes with her, and said, “Tell us what you want us to do, Commander.”

After that, the next year and a half were a cascade of formed connections and formed plans. Source Joyeuse, Piotra, and Chysoar offered them tools and knowledge that her mother and sisters would not have dared dream of. They were in a better place than they’d ever been. Wake could taste the blood of the Emperor, could feel his death at her fingertips.

She was going to be the change she’d wanted to be since she was a child. She was going to avenge her mother, blown to pieces, and her sister, dead to the Nine House’s negligence.

She met with Gideon a few more times, and Pyrrha a few more than that. Each time, they fought and fucked, and sometimes they talked, but never about her plans. Gideon was infuriatingly loyal to his puppet master, and Pyrrha wasn’t supposed to exist. The knowledge of what they were planning would only burden her.

Especially when the Vat Wombs failed, and Wake set about making her bomb with her own two hands.

---

There was a certain level of domesticity that Wake had never allowed herself. She helped raise Pash, and the girl certainly looked up to her, but she wasn’t a mother. She didn’t know how to cook more than what you could boil in a pot of water with little to no additional steps. She could barely keep her own space clean half the time. And she didn’t do feelings talks. Never had, really. Hope had tried, when they were both young and stupid, because she read in some book that it was good to do so. Wake didn’t need a book to tell her that talking about that shit was important. She knew. She just didn’t do it.

Pillow talk, too, was a concept she was familiar with in theory, but something she avoided in practice. She’d fucked around with folks before Pyrrha and Gideon, and she let them assume that was still the case, though it wasn’t— she didn’t have time these days for that kind of bullshit. But even when she did have the time for it, she never stuck around for long after. She liked to think it added to her air of authority. They were done when she said they were done.

Sometimes, when it was Gideon, he would lay back after and hold his hand out, and if she had one (and she usually did), she’s shove a cigarette into his hand, and he’d smoke it and stare at the ceiling or the wall while the cuts and gauges stitched back up. He rarely said much of anything, but sometimes he would look at her for a bit too long, with a certain soft crease to his eyebrows and a barely-noticeable curl to his lip that looked alien on him, like it wasn’t an expression he had a lot of practice with.

He told her once that she had a wicked, mean smile, and she snapped back that he didn’t smile at all, so he shouldn’t talk, and he’d huffed out a curt laugh and said, “I used to. Not for a long time, though.”

And she hadn’t known how to respond to that, so she’d pinned him down, and he’d laughed, and it was a beautiful thing— one that she did not allow herself to dwell on for more than a moment, lest the sound worm its way into her cold, tired heart and find a home there. She sunk her teeth into his shoulder until she tasted blood.

On another occasion, he said, in that gruff, flat way he always spoke, “Sometimes I wish I’d known you before I knew him,” and she’d responded by telling him to take that sentiment and shove it where the light of Dominicus can’t find it. There wasn’t any worth in what ifs. If Gideon weren’t a tedious chicken-shit, it wouldn’t matter when they’d met.

Bottom line: she didn’t need, or want, his loyalty.

Pyrrha was different. It was like she’d orgasm and suddenly she had to talk, or she’d explode and take her necro with her. It usually wasn’t about much of anything. She’d lay back with her hands folded under her head and smirk and tell Wake all about what it was like, before she died the first time. She seldom talked about Gideon, and if Wake ever asked, it usually ended the conversation immediately.

But she’d talk about friends that had long since died. About Anastasia, and Cass, and Cyth, who was still alive, but who hadn’t spoken to her in a millennium. Wake, of course, knew Cyth. She’d been helping the Blood of Eden for some time, but the knowledge would bring Pyrrha no comfort.

Pyrrha would ask Wake questions, too, about her life, and the people she cared about. Once, Wake had spoken to her, briefly about Hope, and something in her voice must have given away her still-smouldering grief, because Pyrrha reached forward and rested her hand atop Wake’s. And there must have been something wrong with her, because for a few burning seconds, she allowed it. And then she said, with less anger than she’d hope to muster, “Get off my ship, Dve,” and the bastard had the nerve to pause to kiss her brow before leaving.

Wake should have killed her for that. She really should’ve.

The infuriating woman seemed to like to hear her talk about Pash in particular, even if it was just the same three things over and over. Wake never gave away much, even to her. She’d look at that shitty, grimy little photo in her toolkit and ask her questions, most of which she didn’t answer, but she never seemed to mind that.

Then, after the vat wombs had failed, and she took matters into her own hands, Pyrrha said, “I always wanted to be a parent,” in his soft, wistful voice. She was looking right at Wake, and for one mortifying moment, she thought that she knew. This shouldn’t have made bile burn up her esophagus, and it damn well shouldn’t have made her heart pound in her chest. She stared back at Pyrrha, her mouth slightly parted, and after a few long seconds, Pyrrha looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

“I think I could’ve been a good mom. Gideon always said I would, and Cass and Ana. Augustine, too, but he was always kissing up to me. He’d say the First was made of pudding if he thought it’d make me happy,” her words were sharp, but Pyrrha’s eyes always betrayed her with how repulsively soft they were. That warm, dark brown always reminded her of the hot chocolate she would get once in a while when she was small, before her mother died. She’d met the Lyctor Augustine once, and she couldn’t conceive of having anything more than passing resentment for the man.

"Any kid you raised would be a jackass with an awful sense of humor," Wake said dryly.

"Don't be a dick," but Pyrrha was still smiling.

She did not think through what she was doing when she settled back into the cot next to Pyrrha and rested her head on her bare shoulder. Her mind longed to wander. Images flashed in her periphery, of a quiet, calm life, somewhere far away with Pyrrha and Gideon and Pash and a shitty little kid. A world where the emperor was long dead and the age of Necromancy had begun to fade into memory.

But first she had to have the baby— the Bomb— and she didn’t know how happy Pyrrha would be with her after that.

It didn’t matter anyway. Even if it worked, and the Emperor was dead in a year, there would be work to do. Wake had long since accepted that she would be working until she was in the ground.

Pyrrha wrapped her big, strong arms around her and gave her a gentle squeeze, and Wake pressed her face into her chest. She didn’t know if it was the pregnancy hormones or something else firing around in her messed up head, but for a moment, Wake closed her eyes, and she allowed herself to imagine them in another life.

----

Celebrating the date of one’s birth was not something they could afford most years. She’d never had them growing up, and she turned out just fine. But the fact remained that having a birthday party was fun, and people, on occasion, liked to have fun. So they had a birthday party for Our Lady of the Passion on years where they had the means to. They had one on her fifth birthday, and her ninth, and now it was her fifteenth, and Wake was busting her ass more than she probably should to make it special, all while being nearly nine months pregnant and certifiably fucking huge. It was awful, it was uncomfortable, but she was, as Hope had once so aptly put it, more stubborn that those weird venomous cats, which were, for the uninitiated, endurance hunters, and ergo, very fucking stubborn.

We Suffer looked at her balancing a gift wrapped in crinkly brown paper and sighed audibly before lifting it out of Wake’s hands, ignoring the curse she bit out in protest.

“Have you ever considered sitting down— taking a rest?” She suggested in a soft, sing-song voice that she knew damn well Wake couldn’t stand.

“Have you ever considered shutting the fuck up?” She shot back, but there was no teeth to it.

“You’re carrying something pretty important,” We Suffer nodded to her stomach, “wouldn’t want it getting jostled too much because mom’s got too much goddamn pride.”

Wake frowned, brows furrowed. The details for her plan weren’t terribly well-known, and We Suffer wasn’t included in that circle. As far as she was aware, Wake was carrying a baby because she’d suddenly developed an affinity for them. So saying something like, I don’t really give a rat’s ass whether this thing is born healthy or on death's door, so long as it’s got blood, would be somewhat alarming. So she just grunted and didn’t complain about the help.

Pash was never good at keeping to herself, and Wake pretended to hate it more than she did. Couldn’t have the girl getting ideas in her head that she could go around doing whatever she wanted. But hell, it was her birthday, so when the little shit bumped against Wake’s side with a shit-eating grin and raised eyebrows, Wake smiled back.

“Where the fuck did you get hair dye, you little shit?” Wake said, running her fingers through freshly blue hair. The sides of her fingers came away slightly stained.

“Scavenged it,” Pash said— she still had a bit of a lisp when she tried to say s-words, but it was a far cry from where she’d been ten. Back then she’d been nigh-incomprehensible. The kid eyed her stomach dubiously, the same way she had since Wake started to show. The two of them hadn’t talked about it, and Wake didn’t intend to, unless Pash brought it up. It’d be a non-issue soon enough, anyway.

“Sooooo,” she said, bumping her shoulder to Wake’s. The kid was stupid tall, and seemed to still be growing, “what’d you get me, dear auntie?”

“I got you my goddamned presence, you little worm,” Wake said with no venom and a traitorous smile curled on her lips. She added, “and a cake, so you better be fucking grateful.”

Pash threw her hands up in surrender, “I am, I am! Shit,” she laughed, and Wake let out a snort that to her own ears was far too fucking fond. This seemed to please Pash, who mumbled something about finding Unjust Hope and took off.

Wake watched her go, and felt herself grow a bit sentimental. She could remember when that kid was small enough for her to hold in both hands. She could remember when she was nothing more than what the Bomb was now, curled inside her, unaware of the world, or the destruction they’d be born into.

Pash had asked her once, when she was eight and newly old enough to understand what had happened to her mother, if Wake hated her for killing Hope. If anyone had asked her before that moment, she might have said yes, or that at least that a part of her did. But Pash had looked at her with those big, sad hazel eyes, and she’d found that there wasn’t any hate left in her for Our Lady of the Passion.

She told her, “No, I don’t hate you. Don’t go getting a big fucking head about it, though.”

And nearly seven years later, she seemed to have gotten a big head about it anyway, by the way she felt comfortable flipping Wake off or calling her old lady. From anyone else, this would have been a deal breaker. She’d fold that fucker in half just to shove their head so far up their ass they forgot which way was up. But the most Pash ever got was some sharp words and a tired huff. So maybe it was her own fault, a little bit.

A little under an hour later, they were all sat around a garbage sheet cake with a single candle in the middle, and Pash was opening their gifts— one of which was a machete with a wicked curve. At the sight of this, Pash let out an awed gasp and raked her eyes over it was a ravenous want. She was Wake’s kid, alright.

From across the table, We Suffer cocked an eyebrow at her, and rather than dignify that with a response, she looked at Pash and said, “You should learn to use it, just in case. But the biggest thing is just getting into a minion’s head. Fuck with them. Make ‘em think you can beat them at their own game, and games they ain’t even thought of yet.”

Pash smiled a wide, toothy grin, “Do you know how to use it? Can you teach me?”

“A little,” Wake said. Sometimes, after a rendeavouz, when Pyrrha was too antsy for pillow talk but nonetheless unwilling to leave, the two of them would practice swordplay together. Pyrrha said she looked like a dog with a stick, but she was working her way up to a dog with a sword. “When I have time, alright?”

Even God didn’t know when that would be, though. The baby would come soon, and, if all went to plan, the death of the Emperor with it. The aftermath of that was impossible to calculate. Even his inner circle wasn’t sure what would happen. But Wake always found time for Pash, one way or another.

Pash set the machete on the table, and seemed about to say something, but then the familiar voice of one of her Wing Commanders, Cherry, crackled over her walkie. It said, “Duty is trailing you. Ninth house operation’s gotta move up.”

We Suffer eyed her from across the table, and as she took the words in, her gaze hardened. What she thought she had figured out, Wake couldn’t be sure. But she’d always been bright, that one. She probably had a pretty good idea.

“Fuck, kid, I gotta go,” she said, feeling genuinely sorry. But Pash was looking at her with a wicked grin and fire in her eyes.

“Go give those zombies hell. You’ll teach me how to use this thing when you get back.”

“Hold me to that,” Wake said, and then she left the base for the last time.

---

Wake stood on wobbly, uncertain, bloody legs. The Bomb was clutches to her chest, rolled a little too tightly in a blanket. On its soft, brown head a few strands of bright red hair, so much like her own, clung wetly to its skull. She refused to recognize herself within her weapon, even as it fussed and whined and cried and reached its tiny, chubby hand towards her in ask for safety, comfort, or anything else a mother might have to give.

But Wake wasn’t a mother. She was a warrior, a commander, a phoenix rising from the ashes, over and over. She put the wailing bundle into a haz suit and clacked the visor shut. Its cries continues, crackly and insistent, through the speakers.

Pyrrha was always the one that wanted to be a mother, and as she stood before her now, Wake felt as though she could read the thoughts storming through her head. She looked at Wake, who must look now like an uncaged beast, covered in her own blood, hair a wild tangle, eyes alight with adrenaline, and she looked every bit as sappy and lovelorn as she always did after they got done fighting or fucking. She said, “Wake, darling, I don’t have long. Let’s take the baby and get out of here. Please.”

“I’m not your darling,” Wake snarled, “and I’m not fucking going anywhere with you.”

Pyrrha stepped back, her eyes widening slightly, at Wake’s tone, and she felt a flush at pride at the sight of hurt contorting her features. Her eyes were always so wide and dark and expressive. She swallowed, “Gideon will be back soon. I can feel him. And he won’t let you go— you or the baby.”

At this, Wake threw her head back in a long, cruel laugh. Against her chest, the Bomb wailed, and in response Pyrrha stepped forward, hands outstretched, and Wake pulled her bundle closer with a low growl. “Fuck off. Gideon can do what the fuck he wants,” and, against her better judgement, she added, “you don’t think he’d kill a baby.”

Pyrrha’s eyes were fixed on the Bomb, like Wake didn’t exist at all, and it took a moment for her to reply, “He’d to anything for him. He’d always do anything for him. Wake, I don’t know what you think your plan is—“

“You don’t,” Wake said, “you don’t have a clue. But it doesn’t matter. I’m gonna kill the fucking emperor, and then it won’t matter who gave Gideon his marching orders. Nothing will matter.”

Pyrrha looked like she might say something more, but before she had the chance, she slumped forward, just briefly, and when she stood back up, green eyes blinked awake, and looked at her, and looked at the Bomb.

Gideon said, “What the fuck did you do?”

Wake said, “I’m going to kill your fucking boss, dipshit.”

Gideon went very still. He looked at Wake, in her ragged haz suit, and the baby, whose baby blue eyes were squinting through the harsh light of the shuttle over at him. For a moment, silence hung between them, save for the occasional fussing of the Bomb in her hands. “Say something,” Wake said.

“I don’t know what you want, Wake. I’ve never known.” Gideon looked properly sad then. The harsh lines of his face softened, and his eyebrows knit together. He looked like he might step forward, and for a precious moment in time, she lived in the world that Pyrrha had always wanted. She lived in a world with them, and maybe Pash, and no one else. Hormones going to her head and nothing more, and even if it were more than that, Gideon shattered the illusion with his next words.

“I can’t let you kill him. You know I can’t.” And he sounded so pathetic and desperate that Wake had to clamp her jaw together and look away, lest she burn apart where she stood.

“You’ve never let me do shit,” she said, laughing bitterly. She turned a knob on the side of her helmet, and the plex slipped down. Her voice came out crackled through the headset. “See you when we’ve won,” she said, and turned to open the airlock, to descend to the planet, and to light that motherfucker up.

Then a fist slammed against her back. She felt a rib break as she tumbled forward into open space. She turned around and briefly saw Gideon’s pained, horrible face, and for a split second, she swore she saw a flash of brown in his eyes. But she was losing air quickly, and she had to lose it quicker, if she wanted the Bomb to make it to its destination.

She wasn’t going to get back home, she wasn’t going to a half-flipped moon, she wasn’t going to see the demise of the Emperor of the Nine Houses. She wasn’t going to get to teach Pash how to use those damn machetes.

“Fuck you!” she snarled, and she directed her life preserves to the Bomb.

As they fell, and life drained slowly and agonizingly from her body, Wake shrieked, “Gideon! Gideon! Gideon!”

And she burned, and she burned, and she burned.

#the locked tomb #commander wake #awake remembrance of these valiant dead #pyrrha dve #gideon the first #our lady of the passion #pyrrhawake #writing tag #waves cutely

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ravencromwell · 4 months

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Ros Vortalis trans headcanons

There are some remarkable trans Holland fics and headcanons, but can we talk about Ros Vortalis, whom all of his friends simply call Vor? Who, even when he’s _dying Holland calls Vor, to be expected, but also Vortalis which’s so much longer than Ros.

A bit of googling informs me Ros is “protector” in German, which’s chef’s kiss one hundred/ten no notes V.E. But it’s also, more frequently, a diminutive of Rosalind. Disclaimer before I start these that I respect and love! the headcanons of Makt as fairly gender nonrestrictive, with power being more of a defining factor of treatment. My Makt, however, is more complicated, with gender and gender transitions being imperfect but still a site where joy can be created, much like the rest of White London existence. Putting the rest of these beneath a cut with that in mind because as a trans person, I know some days I can’t handle transness as careful complication to be navigated and don’t want to inflict it on anyone unprepared. (Though, I promise! there’re fluffy as fuck nsfw Vor/Holland and Vor/friends headcanons in here to cut the angst.)

Ros retains a shortened form of his given namefor business purposes within the Shal—we know Shal means “market” in Red London, and I tend to think it means the same in White, such that when Holland calls him a “thug from the Shal” he’s referring to Vor being in the merchant/smuggling business. When he transitions, he’s relatively young and honestly to flagrantly demand a name change would be seen by too many as blood in the water. His greatest focus, always, is Makt rather than his personal happiness and he’d rather be burdened with the “nickname” Ros and be capable of rising in the Shal in service of becoming king.

There’re two ways of transitioning: the easiest and least painful is utilizing a spell similar to Astrid’s with Lila and stealing a face and voice. But that spell fades with death and though Vor understands that his body is likely destined for desecration once he’s gone as Makt’s people drain its blood and magic, there’s still this stubborn demand that they destroy a body without the face that made him shudder every time his child self caught a glimpse (he is so grateful for a lack of mirrors in Makt for much of his young adulthood.)

So he chooses the harder, excruciating method: finds a bone magician to permanently reshape his body. Session after session, over months traveling abroad on a ship with only the open sea and crew to hear him scream himself hoarse.

The first time they share a bed, Holland strokes along the broadened shoulders, runs fingers along the scars on his chest—eyes fixed on Vor’s all the while— and murmurs: “If they did not believe you would hold the throne, they were fools.”

“I’m flattered.” He’s bright-eyed, with that deep, rolling-sea laugh.

“After this, very little would stop you.” Fools have marveled at the extent of spells across his body, and inwardly he howls in hysterical laughter because there is very little to dull pain in Makt, and the shipboard pain was so vast it made everything else feel like pinpricks by comparison. He’s never bedded someone who would know that as intimately as the man who had done his damndest to use that same magic in stopping Vor’s fist before it connected with his face, and the admiration uncoils something deep in his chest. “Sometimes I’m certain I can’t keep it. One moment it will be there and then not.” He manages a farse of a smile “Foolish, after all these decades, but such is the weakness of your future king, Holland.”

“Lucky you would have an Antari to put it back, then.”

By the time he returned to London, voice rumbling deep from an expanded chest, people understood quickly to use “Ros” with the proper pronouns or see just how effective the runes on his hands were. But well…Ros is an easier shirt than Rosalind to slip into, but it will never sit comfortably. As he develops allies, he finds that Vor and Vortalis fit easier. And it becomes a good gauge for trust. Those who understand implicitly how painful his given name is and respect that, are people worth keeping. It becomes easier, as fewer and fewer people survive who remember Rosalind.

There are far too many moments to count when former friends or lovers try to use “Ros” as a weapon, with a little smirk that says: “You never said we _couldn’t call you that.” And he’s deeply glad he made a relatively small name fuss and provided only a small chink in his armor. (Those sorts of people tend, inevitably, to cause the use of his knives. As though letting them close and showing kindness is an invitation for open season. But such are the risks in Makt, and he is a man who craves touch and closeness. What good to craft the ideal body only to never have it appreciated. The way Holland simply…withdrew from people after Talya is something almost unfathomable. Whether they’re the closest of friends or both king and night and! king and beloved—which’s pretty much always in my head—there’s a deep, profound ache that he could never touch Holland enough to make up for too many years alone.

It’s the dimmest flicker every time he sees the “knight” and “Antari” masks slip, when Holland leans against his shoulder or puts his head in Vor’s lap, eyes half-closing at fingers in his hair. But, simply because the task is nigh on impossible, doesn’t mean he won’t do his best. Vor touches Holland Vosijk a hundred thousand times in those two years of rule—and so, so many more if they both survive—and is so very, very grateful he could take the touches the best of his lovers and allies offered over the last thirty years. (On a slashy front, can we also just talk about how, as a couple, there’s an incomparable way arousal and awe intertwine for Vor _every time Holland reaches out and shows affection: a kiss against his temple as Vor lets their foreheads rest together; a hand moving slow and easy down his back. To be trusted enough for the most guarded man he’s ever met—it took Vor _months to convince him to kill Gorst and he’s never had to work so hard or wanted so desperately for someone to say yes in his life—to touch him is such a valuable thing that he has immense responsibility not to break.)

Also in couple’s verse: If Vor has a small regret, it’s that the bone magicians are far more skilled with outward, above-the-waist presentation—because the best of them have not only done this for trans people, but for criminals etc. seeking a disguise. Thankfully, they had no trouble cutting him open to ensure he would never be with child—he doesn’t have the vocabulary for dysphoria, but the idea of his stomach rounded and heavy is one of the few things that can make him viciously soul-deep terrified. But the below the waist equipment well, it’s not a magic Makt has the luxury of learning.

By the time he meets Holland, it’s the very faintest of regrets: he has a collection of strap-ons for when he and a lover want to indulge in that particular fantasy—and is comfortable enough in his skin it’s an indulgence and not a requirement. It’s beautiful to watch lovers slide to their knees and take them in their hands or mouths or slide inside and watch them arch with pleasure. But oh, oh he wishes he could _feel it. It’s not a complaint worth voicing, and honestly after he becomes king, there’s very little time to indulge.

But one day, Holland comes back, smelling of flowers holding a box, tells the guards to wait at the end of the hall because he has crucial business from “the other London” for the king’s ears alone, which has Vor intrigued and concerned because he hasn’t come close to asking Holand to send a message. But before the concern can swell to anything beyond a flicker, he sees a flush so faint anyone would miss it who wasn’t watching. (Even before the Danes, Holland held his feelings and desires in an iron grip; Vor learned early in sharing a bed that Holland loathed the idea of being heard by those not his lovers when losing control: not merely a discomfort that could add spice to an evening, but viscerally, the way it would take everything Vor had to turn his back on an armed opponent.) This is pleasure, not business and he flicks his fingers in a silent command before they can even turn to look.

"Go get yourselves some dinner,“ he says for good measure, "If there is a foe Holland cannot protect me from, there’s little more bodies can do.”

When he opens the box…there are the usual straps but the cock. The cock feels like _skin. “The Arnesians-” and oh, there’s still so much contempt in those words “With their infinite supply of magic have learned to transmute. From earth to bone, and then something softer. There is an illusion for the Arnesians who want to forget the straps.” There were layers upon layers beneath that statement: neither of them wished, at least then, to go begging for scraps, but to _take a little of the bounty Arnes had hoarded,

“_Yes!”

Neither of them know how the illusion works: it is as mysterious as the fireworks Holland has seen that fool his eyes into certainty dragons fly across the unbearably vivid Arnesian sky. It does not matter; in those moments when Holland’s mouth is hot on skin, Vor is utterly, entirely certain Holland is swallowing down the cock he has always had.

It’s almost too much, leaves him speechless for the first time in decades, has Holland scrambling up and onto the bed even as his eyes are still glassy from watching the king come undone to wrap himself around Vor’s back until the world comes into focus again. “Is it only good once or-” he asks, finally and Holland’s smirk is wicked.

When he’s upending the Ost table and coughing up blood—, so much, too much kajt I hope Holland can take the throne because whoever these bastards are they can’t rule, the thing he clings to: more than “Stay with me"—though he _tries—, more than the raw panic in Holland _swearing—is the name. _Vortalis, he says when the table overturns—though it would be such a forgivable mistake to use Ros. Vor, he says while chanting stay and one of his blood spells. He will die as who he made himself, not as he was born.

The three threads of coherence for Holland are the blood spell. That Vor _has to stay. And that if he cannot be enough to stop this, he _will not let Vor die hearing him use the wrong name.

In verses where Vor lives, they both know the "thank you” when he wakes is not for the healing, though to be alive is a joy.

#Holland Vosijk #Ros Vortalis #Ros Vortalis/Holland Vosijk #[to anyone who saw this before I could add the read more fuck I'm sorry I haven't posted on here for too long and how you do everything wit #screen readers is different now]#queer stuff #my meta #shades of magic #please anyone who would like to incorporate any of these into anything Shades related do so gleefully #seeing any of these floating around in fic would make my fucking year #from the moment! all Vor's friends called him by his surname I wanted to write him as trans #so this is my gleefully self-indulgent Christmas present to myself #I'm taking the anxiety out of fic with an essay/meta and fic hybrid I first saw the brilliant #badassbutterfly1987 #use on a different topic a few days ago *bows to this ship's captain who's supplied a shockingly wonderful amount of content solo #and is watering my crops with current drabble collection*#it lets me not worry about producing a perfect product while indulging my love of dialogue and is kinda glorious #(for the record. askbox/messenger's always open to talk anything in this fandom #especially White London and/or these two whose dynamic has sent me into the hardest hyperfixation since I don't even know when

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phanfictioncatalogue · 6 months

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Humor (6) Masterlist

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

7 Places Not to Have Sex, a Guide by Dan Howell - ttathinker

Summary: because not every time dan and phil have sex results in careless whispers in the background and scented candles.

an elemental match (ao3) - itsmyusualphannie (itsmyusualweeb)

Summary: “one moment can change a day, one day can change a life, and one life can change the world”

- not buddha

dan and phil, who like everyone else in their world have some level of superhuman powers, are out and about when tragedy strikes. they have powers, though. they can fix this, right? right.

(right?)

Baby, I'm a Star (ao3) - cactusgal

Summary: Phil is a lighting designer. Bored with the community concert gigs he has worked for a couple years, he applies at a touring company. He is assigned to a popular band, the dreamx, to cover a world tour. Getting paid to work on nearly every continent: how rad is that? Phil's excited until the first day of rehearsal when he learns something vital: the lead singer is a complete twat. Will Phil quit his job? Will Daniel, the lead singer, realize how much of a dick he's being? Will they eventually forget their differences and become friends? Who knows. Only time will tell.

can dan and phil nut (ao3) - itsmyusualphannie (itsmyusualweeb)

Summary: dan and phil try no-nut november

Christmas with a few Kinks (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Phil’s a cheeky lil’ shit and inspires Dan to set them up with a Mrs Claus they only know for about an hour.

i jump for my phone every moment it lights up (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Dan left YouTube behind to become an actor, but years later when coronavirus hits and forces him into self-imposed quarantine he rediscovers an old passion of his - AmazingPhil. He hadn't counted on becoming internet friends with him, or falling in love for that matter.

It all started with a snake bite (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Dan accidentally turns Phil on. Ribena gets all over the couch. While cleaning it up Dan finds out some surprising, and arousing things about Phil's university life.

Kick Me While I'm Down (ao3) - jerseker

Summary: Dan and Phil meet in an adult kickball league. Phil is just there to make friends. Dan is - not.

Lipstick (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Inspired by an Instagram filter, Dan tries lipstick.

Moments (ao3) - TwistedRocketPower

Summary: Dan and Phil had a file. A file of moments that were for their eyes only. Until one day, they were broadcast to the world.

One Last Time (ao3) - greensweater

Summary: When Dan Howell moves in with Phil Lester to help pay the rent, Phil isn't expecting anything but a new friend. What happens, however, is a connection neither of them can deny, even as much as they want to. A Housemate!Phan au.

Practice Makes Perfect (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Phil said he would paint Dan’s nails in a live show, and doesn’t think much of it until Dan finds someone else to do it. Dan is surprised and amused at Phil’s reaction.

Reflections (ao3) - howlthenight

Summary: After the US TATINOF tour, the guys decide it's time for a day at the beach.

“This is perfection, isn’t it?” says Dan peacefully, feeling what he assumes others consider the lightness of being. Phil makes a noise of agreement. Serenity permeates the air. A cruise ship appears as if it’s sitting at the edge of the ocean. They dig their toes into the sand.

Ring It On (ao3) - ahappyphil

Summary: @danielhowell: come hang out with dizzle and pizzle while we tell you the true life tale of how phil desecrated our marriage

seasons change (ao3) - sadlybunny

Summary: The boy is irresistible. He’s got that “couldn’t be bothered” attitude that has always intrigued Phil, always made him want to know Danny a little bit better. Phil knows falling in love with his best friend’s younger brother is wrong. But he just can’t seem to do the right thing.

The Boy In The Garden (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester had nothing in common. But when the two of them end up working together in the abandoned school garden, will friendship- or something more- develop between them?

the money summits - LetGladnessDwell

Summary:

You might think you’re talking about numbers, but it’s always more than that, Kath had said.

(Or, what Dan and Phil talk about when they talk about money.)

You push all my buttons down. (I know life would suck without you) (ao3) - sinking_wthatship

Summary: Dan and Phil are together, but they have a fight. They don’t speak (only to argue), and have to film a video together. They act civil and what not but it is obvious that they aren’t as close. After the filming, there is a lot of sexual tension, so Phil kisses Dan and it ends up as angry/make-up sex.

#phanfictioncatalogue #phanfiction #phanfic #phan #masterlists #humor #humor masterlist

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autistdazai · 10 months

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hanahaki disease cwilbur at the end of pogtopia. it starts a day before the festival, and he doesn’t have a clue what is happening. he still tries to hide it, for a week or so pogtopia is full of vases with sunflowers and pink tulips and red roses, tubbo thinks tommy put them there and tommy thinks it was tubbo, the dates match up. but when the flowers he coughs up start to have touches of soot on them, and the sickness begins withering him from the inside out, it becomes impossible. techno notices first, helps him hide it from tommy, tells him about the mythology, but he doesn’t pry. its not his business who’s causing it.

he has to leave several times during niki’s party, tells people its for a smoke break. he would be smoking, if he had the lung capacity to spare. as it is he leaves when a flower gets caught in his throat. a new one gets caught every time quackity smiles, laughs, tells a joke, and he thinks it must be him who caused it. quackity seems to be at the root of all his problems, why not this one? at the end of the night, he kisses him, quackity seems surprised but goes along with it. wilbur nearly chokes on it, and tells quackity he’s going to go blow up lmanburg. he flees to the button room, and coughs up his first wither rose.

it doesnt actually matter, though. he knew he was going to die soon anyway, that was the plan after all. so he hides it, turns a bit paler, looks a little sicker. he doesnt look people in the eyes anymore. he couldn’t carry the weight of armor if he wanted to.

and then november 6th rolls around, and he can’t take five steps without becoming too winded to stand. so he has techno carve him a cane. he hides the black stains on his hands with leather gloves, and then those leave stains on everything he touches. pogtopia’s furnaces are fueled on the soot-stained roses his lungs provide them, and tommy complains about the smoke. techno tells him off, says the resistance needs food and their food is baked potatoes, and shoos him off to get more iron so tommy doesn’t see what’s actually burning. the deal goes south, and so does wilbur’s health.

dream remarks on his health, when passing him another bundle of TNT. wilbur tells him the truth, as much as he knows. theres no point in it. the mask is inscrutable, dream tells him that he hopes he gets better.

by november 16th, he can’t stand. this would all be over if he could get to that room. he can’t stop the disease, but he can stop himself. the army leaves him behind. before he leaves, tommy tells him he’s going to get the country back for him. wilbur crawls up the stairs on his hands and knees, collapses halfway up, and drags himself to the top where a horse waits for him. he wobbles onto it, and rides for the button room.

but hes too late. and phil stops him. and as phil carries him away in his arms, his wings casting a shadow over the new administration, techno blows it up. he doesn’t hear why, only tommy’s screaming is loud enough to reach them in the sky.

a soft flower, with an earthy taste rather than a desecrated one, catches in his throat. he tries to cough it up. chokes on it. he finds out later it was a sunflower.

he wakes up in the arctic with techno and phil hovering over him. phil questions wilbur on the cause. wilbur is silent, except for protesting that theres no use, its all ruined, its gone and hes still here. he doesnt say the last part out loud, but techno hears it anyway, and the growl he lets out has a bit of grief in it when he realizes that he nearly killed wilbur, and might still if they cant fix this. instead of saying any of that, though, techno corrects him. says it isnt all gone. says tubbo and quackity and tommy are rebuilding it. that it looks like shit.

and wilbur sits up. theyre rebuilding it? over that crater? techno says yea, the same spot. they couldve moved a half kilometer west, or just made camp in pogtopia, but they were insistent. called it new lmanburg, with the old flag up on banners everywhere so it will never be completely gone again. he sounds bitter, but he keeps talking because as he does, wilbur breathes.

and then he stands up on his own. he asks for a horse, phil gets him a boat and tells him to head south oversea.

the travel is strenuous. the hypoxia is a blessing, it keeps him from knowing what he’s going to say. he only has enough oxygen for his racing heart, and it knows what it wants. it wants to go home.

the docks were left intact, he steps onto them. he sees the haphazard boards and logs making sheds suspended over the crater. no effort had been made to hide the damage. the damage he caused, and it chokes him up, brings him to his knees. he looks up and the red, white, blue, black, and yellow flag flies over him. he hacks up a cornflower, the first of its kind. bats it into the sea, and heads to the nation.

he hears quackity first, pushes the door open. he says to them that he never thought they would do it without him. tommy jumps at him and throws his arms around him, tells him he didnt know if they could. wilbur says theyll never know, if theyll have him. everyone turns to tubbo, who seems to be in charge. he says of course wilbur, youre one of us, forever. wilbur asks if theres a spot open in the cabinet, tubbo pauses. asks how the presidency sounds to him.

clear as day, he responds that it sounds wonderful.

#cwilbur #dream smp #unlikely that i write this but if i do i have an outline #side not if you dont have a phd in cwilbur you cant argue me on this #but i do think the good ending for him would be him taking up presidency #i say that because its an unpopular ending in fix-its and it shouldnt be #i can meta that but only on request

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summonhouse · 1 year

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tell me about sweetheart. i see you tagging them a lot

SWEETHEART gets tagged so frequently because she is SOOO funny and also bc so many of the posts on my blog fit her theming so well its hilarious. its freaky. i think youd like her what with the robots and such tee hee. oh god this got long i summarize the entirety of the rp campaign she was for and its way way way longer than what ive got down even

art by lazer god i hope that loads!

i posted her recently in the context of her being an au of lawrie where she was made for a friends roleplay campaign and world (westal bay), so shes tweaked from the lawrie formula just slightly but keeps the core concepts- shes a robot, but unlike lawrie who was commissioned to be a son, she was created by a lonely little freak who wanted a robot girlfriend (unfortunately for him, she is male. she/her mlm winning 24/7. so now hes gay.), however the technology to make a sapient person from scrap metal got the attention of the jeff bezos of westal bay and sweetheart was taken from him and instead placed in the hands of a couple of terrible lawyers with her memory wiped. shes told now that shes human and their son despite her rampant memory loss, and even with all the holes in her brain all she can remember is vague impressions of nathan her creator- of course not knowing shes a robot, she assumes these are not memories but premonitions and that hes her soulmate and she goes A Little bit crazy as her parents neglect her and she is allowed to sink fully into delusions and fantasies about her beloved boyfriend

art by apotheoseity, dm of westal bay and writer of nathan. so swart (i call her swart mostly sorry) starts off the campaign as goofy, ditzy, real stupid. shes rich, she knows capitalism is a scam but cant do much to change it though she wants to, shes overly kind and naive and just helpless, she desperately desperately DESPERATELY wishes to assist people because she is so delusional she believes shes some sort of divine beast sent upon the earth to save everyone, because she does not identify with humans. she along w the other player characters are hired to investigate various strange and upsetting happenings around their city (westal bay) WHERE she nearly immediately gets dragged into a cult. because of course shes prone to religions indoctrination, shes very very lonely and she thinks everything in her brain is so much realer than the depressing and cruel reality around her and they tell her SHE!! can be their savior. she is manipulated into drinking the blood of a desecrated and juiced god, which is a procedure that SHOULD kill her horribly, overabundance of magic tends to do that. but. because shes a robot, she can handle it well and gains magic powers :) this further influences her terrible delusions and everything quickly goes downhill- the rest of the team are disgusted by the cult and swarts support of it, swart doesnt have it in her to refuse the cult now because shes already drank the koolaid as it were, she NEEDS to help people as they learn that the city is so much more corrupt than they thought- major labs working with the cults and experiments to try and create new gods are abundant. DURING one of these excursions into a lab shes told straight up that she is a robot, not a person, and in fact just a prototype as the jeff bezos is forcing (unknown to her) her boyfriend to make more of her as companions like theyre fucking furbies, so she just goes full fucking tilt. sooo much anguish around her and everything she tries to investigate or helps with just gets worse, her teammates dont really like her, at most they feel bad for her, and eventually their investigation leads her back to nathan finally where thats like. thats where its cemented that she is Fully fucked up bc she and nathan will do aaaanything for each other, they love each other desperately. even kill :) final conflict of the campaign as all the terrors have been uncovered is that nathan steps up to the plate on fixing it, AT SWARTS SUGGESTIONS, by killing everyone in their way so that he can uplift swart as god and remake society !! makes a big murder robot, murders mr jeff bezos, tries to murder the prime minister but the team finally bands together to stop him as his robot begins malfunctioning and trying to suck his soul up- everyone has to drag swart around and make emotional calls to her to stop trying to help nathan as he fully fucks people up it was so. so good.

im really really obsessed with her, i could go on and on and on about her characterization and every little interaction she was in but ofc theres little context bc, private rp haha. but god... she asked nathan once why he made her and he just said, i dont know, i wanted to see if i could. imagine that! her lifes so much of being dragged around, set up on a pedestal and ascribed traits- this is a cool robot i could make! this is a cool boyfriend who has to love me because im all he knows! this is my son who will look and act exactly like us! this is our new savior! this is the prototype for our new project! shes subject to so much scrutiny and she cant even do anything, its everyone around her deciding what she should be and what she should do, she'll listen to any suggestion because she feels so hopeless- its why she keeps doing evil shit, she literally just wants to help people and being told maiming others does so shes like yeah that might be true, i cant do literally anything else! shes so peppy and sweet and optimistic, she knows everyone deserves better but by the end shes so tired and broken up she just wants to kill people so that the obstacles in the road from her big happy ending get out of the way- she thinks life is like a fairy tale and there ought to be one big bad guy to be killed in a glorious just manner. in the end though, everythings ok. nathan gets therapy or something and her parents are arrested so she owns their big stupid mansion, and she invites all of her new friends to live with her, so shes probably learning how to act like a human right about now XD. heres some more of my favorite art of her!

aaaand heres her toyhouse with a more full and properly written description of her story- i dont think its been edited since the last session though hmm https://toyhou.se/14625750.sweetheart?key=2jaB07sEHwA2coD

#ask #THANKU.

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marciabrady · 2 years

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Hi marciabrady, I just wanted to pop in and say how much I appreciate you standing up for classic Disney films. I love Sleeping Beauty so much everything from the artistry of every frame, the music being from the ballet, Mary Costa's wonderful voice in Once Upon A Dream, all the voices were wonderful I can't imagine anyone else especially Philip he adds a lot to Once Upon A Dream, to the character animations being just so inhumanly elegant and smooth especially for Aurora, how kind and dutiful and romantic and gorgeous she is, how maternal and proactive the fairies are, how strong and determined and charming Philip is, how deliciously evil Maleficent is, its simply one of the greatest films of all time period. It makes me so sad to see the studio that is built on stories like this go back to "fix them" and in the process tarnish the story and their reputation. It feels like nowadays people can't appreciate fairy tales and try to suck the charm and magic from them. Not every women has to be a rebellious warrior or go "screw the patriarchy" because she doesn't need a man and is an independent girlboss. Some characters have a quiet strength to them, and thats okay. Sorry this got really ramble-y but thx and again, I love your blog!

Thank you so much!! I really appreciate receiving this and getting to hear from someone who enjoys the multitudes of artistry that went into crafting the original movies.

I completely agree with you about how the studios have given into hating on their own works because of bad-faith criticisms from people who will never like these movies. Like they are not the audience to pander to. Ngl it was a little gratifying to hear Elle Fanning repent in some of her interviews for the second Maleficent movie and say Aurora was her own person and had her own personality and she didn't have to be a warrior to be strong, and she actually spoke about the value Aurora had (unlike the press for the first film where she just kept saying Aurora was nothing but a pretty princess and her job was to deepen that. It's too bad Elle's Aurora was so inferior to the original). Unfortunately, this is not only affecting the production of these cursed live action remakes, but I feel like it's greatly contributing the homogenization and the commercialization of art. Which, I understand all films to some extent have always had an element of being commercialized, but...it's just getting so bad and I feel like it's really desecrating what was once the American artform. I think the Disney Renaissance really, if it continued with the same creative team, could've gone on to produce Walt-era level worthy films, and I'm genuinely hoping we can return one day. Walt wanted animation to become a genre, not just "for children" and I think over the past twenty years, we've literally made these films only for children.

I'm hoping to make a difference with the appreciation posts I do so that people out there can see the values these original characters have and see how nuanced and different and unique they are and return to that form, or at least vary their own style a little bit instead of sticking with the same thing. I know responses to criticisms used to garner a lot of attention, but I think I might stick with making appreciation posts from now on. We'll see. Whatever it is, like I mentioned I think this is an issue that's affecting so much of our life and how we see each other, and I'm not content with just writing about it on my personal anymore. I'm hoping I'll be able to write an article somewhere, to garner new audiences and hopefully change the minds of many people or at least spark a conversation. I just genuinely am horrified that this redundant rhetoric is persisting and I really hope I can make a difference.

#ask #anonymous #thank you so much though seriously #my ims are always open for you <3

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rolling-restart · 1 year

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I agree that the fixer is definitely an important role as it shows us just how cold and cruel Toto really is that he already has somebody on hand to do his dirty work for him. Plus it makes him that little bit more terrifying because he really can get away with anything if he pays someone enough. However I think it would only work as a side character because I don’t think it’s realistic to project some saviour complex onto an original character who has just popped up because even though she keeps saying “I don’t get paid enough for this.” I can imagine she’s actually getting a more than generous payoff, more than enough to keep her mouth shut. The thing I like about this fic is how realistic it is in that you didn’t just make Daniel this saviour and everything’s suddenly okay because Daniel’s saved him. I absolutely hate when these kinds of difficult fic just brush over the escape part because it’s never just as simple as a hero coming along to save the day and I really like the way you’ve portrayed that so far. It’s the same with Nico, even when he had someone there trying to drag him out of this terrible situation, it took him years to come around and that is so much more realistic to read and I think it really helps you to understand a writer’s maturity and understanding of these dynamics. You’ve done a really great job of including so many realistic aspects and haven’t let the fic go in a more unrealistic direction for the sake of unnecessary added dramatic effect.

Okay that was far too much rambling, but long story short I think the fixer is important in showing you what kind of person toto is, but I don’t think it’s realistic for her to go against Toto and suddenly become this big part in the plot. I also think original characters can be quite hard to write so I wouldn’t create a big role for her unless you felt it necessary

Thanks a lot! I really appreciate your feedback.

I assume you know my writing and how much I hate easy fixes. Desecration was supposed to be a two-chapter whump fic but you guys loved it so much and I had so much trauma to dump on it, it continued. It got longer and longer as I refused to give the situation an easy and unrealistic fix because I very well know that it doesn't work like that.

I wrote a bit more of the fixer and the balance is okay for now. Obviously, she wouldn't turn her back to Toto to follow her heart. And I have no intention to make her a Deux ex machina either but I think she has a strong potential to be a good plot device. I know I am taking a risk by involving an oc but I hope you people will like it!

Thanks so much for letting me know what you think!

#desecration: gr/tw fic #answered asks

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karama9 · 4 months

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Crossover, mini Link meet

You know what everyone who doesn't remember Hero and who's not reading All That Hurts Us need?

A crossover of the two!

See, the thing is, Hero!Link is super easy to cross over with any other Link because he can send his spirit to visit his past selves. So I couldn't resist getting him to bother ATHU!Link for a bit.

And besides, getting several Links to interact is pretty popular nowadays, right?

***

Hyrule Field, not far from the Great Plateau, two nights after Heroes’ Day

Link knew he should sleep – there was nothing else productive he could do at the moment. He had no idea what to do next other than seeking guidance or help from the Goddesses, which was already pretty desperate, and he couldn’t do that until morning.

So he was lying down on his side, eyes closed, as comfortable as he could be with his travel blanket and pillow, and he was wide awake.

He was therefore on his feet, ready to draw in a flash when he heard someone clearing their throat.

He stared. The only thing around was what appeared to be the ghost of a… not quite Hylian person. Their skin was pale like most Hylians, but their ears were barely pointy at all. Whoever it was, they’d had a rough life: they were so skinny and slight that every one of their bones in the unclothed parts of their body seemed ready to poke out of their skin. Link guessed they’d died of hunger.

The apparition was staring right back.

“Who…” it said. And then looked around. “Okay, er, this is going to sound like a weird question but... is there anyone around who… er… wait. Is that…?”

The strange ghost’s eyes had just fixed on the handle of the Master Sword. Link’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was very confused and the last thing he needed right now was for his life to get more complicated.

“The Master Sword,” he confirmed. “Who or what are you looking for?”

The apparition’s eyes widened. “It IS you!” he exclaimed. “Ok, that makes more sense. Sorry I didn’t recognize you, you look different. First time I see a past me with dark skin. Wait. Your ears! You’re not even Hylian!”

Link quirked an eyebrow. Most of that was utter gibberish. He took a wild guess based more on the ghost’s reaction to the sword than to anything he had said. “You’re looking for the Hero? And you didn’t know I was Sea Folk?”

The apparition scratched its head and looked down. “We don’t know that much about most of the past ones,” he said.

Link tilted his head. “Past ones?”

The apparition swallowed and then did a little waive. “Hi. Sorry if I woke you up. I’m your future self. I can send my spirit into the past. I had NO idea some of my past selves were not Hylian! You say you’re from the sea?”

Link lowered his hand away from the handle of his sword. The apparition was making it very difficult to feel threatened.

“My grand-parents came across the sea to Hyrule. They weren’t living on the Sea or anything, it’s just that… well, that’s how you get here from there. I was born here, my parents were born here, but the lot of us are called Sea Folk. I’m not sure I believe you’re my future self, for the record. Just the same, what do you want?”

“I was aiming for someone who was trying to get help from the Goddesses,” the apparition said. “I… need their help. But I don’t know how to ask for it. Zelda says to pray, but we tried that, and it’s not working. We’re probably doing it wrong.”

“The Princess’s prayers are going unanswered even though it’s your last resort?” Link said. The idea was a bit horrifying, mostly because it confirmed the same thing could very well happen to him tomorrow morning. “Where did you try? It might be desecrated. Do you have any way to tell?”

The apparition’s eyebrows were threatening to disappear in his hairline.

“It matters where you do it?” he said. “What’s desecerated? Is it bad?”

Link sagged a bit. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, do you?” he asked.

The apparition blushed and shook his head. “Zelda doesn’t either. She knows about praying, and when we did it to the Sages it worked, but…”

Link sat down and gestured for the apparition to do the same.

“Ok. Goddesses are only sort of omniscient. They are, but for the most part they’re not paying attention. The Three LEFT Hyrule, you know that much, right? They mostly don’t get involved. And Hylia… she hasn’t left but...” he trailed off. Hylia was not always aware of suffering in the present because she was stretched between the past and the future.

“That’s what I told Zelda!” Link said. “We have to figure out how to get them to hear us first if we want them to do what we're asking!”

Link felt heat going to his head and did his best not to scowl too hard. He got up but schooled his voice as well as he could to sound merely pissed instead of furious as he stared down his supposed future self. The apparition startled anyway.

“Okay, listen,” Link said. “I, and every other hero, have the Goddesses’ blessings. Farore grants us the courage to put up with all this and to keep fighting, and to face anything. Din gives us so, so much power. And Nayru gives us the wisdom and love we need to put that courage and power to a purpose and to feel something else than doomed. And Hylia… is harder to explain.” Hylia was literally in love with their soul and mourning their separation, but her blessings were less predictable and much harder to pinpoint. “The point is, they deserve your respect. Don’t entertain the thought of them sitting in wait for the opportunity to do as mortals bid. That’s beyond insulting. Prayers are not spells that compel them to do what you want.”

The apparition had the good sense to look chastised and not to argue.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “How do I reach them? How do I ask for help nicely?”

Link took a deep breath. “All right. You say you’re from the future? How much of the Great Plateau is still standing? How are the temples?”

The apparition blinked. “I don’t know what the Great Plateau is,” he said apologetically.

Link sighed. “No worship, no great plateau… I guess it follows. Are the three Sacred Springs still around?”

The apparition shook its head. “I have no idea what those are. I’m making the future look bad, aren’t I?”

Link shrugged. “IF you’re from the future,” he said. “I honestly have enough to worry about in my current lifetime without fretting about a future one ahead of schedule. Anyway, if there’s no actual proper place of worship, I think your best bet is places they would like. Shrine or not, they’re more likely to notice you there.”

He held up a finger. “Farore likes plant and animal life, particularly forests. Her shrine was in Faron Woods but it’s been defiled… not sure she’ll go back there in particular.” He held up a second finger. “Nayru likes water and ice. That can be anywhere almost, but the more the better? Her shrine is on top of a frozen mountain right now.” He held up a third finger. “Din likes fire of course. Look on or around Death Mountain.”

He paused and crossed his arms. “Hylia… ok, I don’t want to get into details if you don’t already know them, but if you really are the Hero reborn, Hylia might listen to you if you need her. Even more so than to her Royal Highness Princess Zelda.”

The apparition looked thoughtful. “It’s mostly Zelda that’s been trying,” he said. “You think I might be able to reach Hylia? Would… would she be able to help with…” he trailed off.

“If you’re from the future, does it really strategically matter what you reveal to me?”

The apparition bit his lips.

“We’re trying to get the triforce back from Ganon,” he finally said.

Link’s legs suddenly gave out and he found himself falling back on his blanket.

“Ganon… has the TRIFORCE??” he asked. “All of it? How?? There’s no WAY he managed balance! It should separate as soon as he makes a wish again, and only grant part of it! He can’t have all of it!”

The apparition did not meet his eyes. “Zelda said it should separate too, but it hasn’t yet. She thinks he’s not actually joining them, just keeping them until he figures it out. They’re still giving him power though.”

“Would it kill you to respect the Princess too…” Link groaned before shaking his head. He knew he was focusing on something that didn’t matter to distract himself from the thought of Ganon having gotten his hands on the triforce again, but seeing as this particular issue was literally Future Him’s problem, he felt he could allow himself some leeway for his own peace of mind.

“Oh, er. Zelda in my time is not a princess. We don’t have Kings and stuff anymore.”

Link’s eyes widened. “She has no title at all, she’s just a regular citizen? Doesn't that make it harder to keep track of Hylia’s bloodline?”

The apparition tilted his head briefly but shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean, sorry. I better go and try praying to Hylia. Thank you!”

He vanished instantly, leaving Link to stare at empty air.

#All That Hurts Us #Hero or more accurately Moving On #crossover #just for fun #Link of Given #Hero of Times #Legend of Zelda #my writing #Link Meet AU

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