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talltalesandbedtimestories · 1 month

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Save A Tree, Eat A Beaver - Priestly x Rowena

“Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver” - Priestly x Rowena

Part 1 of Pets4Punks

Rating Teen (Part 1)

Priestly x Rowena

Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff and Flirting, Owls Go Bad, Zoo Shenanigans, Homage to Betty White, Spell Casting, A Comedy of Errors

Word Count: 3800

Priestly’s nursing a broken heart. Rowena’s exacting some magical revenge. What will unfold when these two meet at a Beastly Ball?

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Flirtation-Whiskey-A Mistake At A Zoo" square.

Image created in Canva (credit for photos used: “Ten Inch Hero”; movietvtechgeeks.com)

“Would that be an invitation, there, then?”

Priestly dabbed his brow with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. It was hot in the food tent. Even if Beach City Grill was serving up pre-made hero sandwiches, bookending vendors grilled and fried their fare with furious abandon. Other heat factors included portable spotlights and generators. The warm night breeze created a tiny suffocating vortex under the tent for Priestly to inhabit.

Priestly panted. Hot didn’t seem like an accurate description.

No. When you added in the thousand or so bodies at The LA Zoo’s 37th Beastly Ball, the temperature downright sizzled.

Priestly attempted to blink away his discomfort. A cacophony dialed his irritation up to ten. People chattered. A DJ spun another record through an obnoxious sound system with speakers the size of refrigerators. Even if the funds being raised tonight benefitted the zoo, he couldn’t imagine a bear or lion being okay with any of this. If there weren’t barriers in the way, he was pretty sure this entire crowd would be mauled to death by some very irate mammals. He only had so much patience for the human race of which he was unfortunately a part.

At least he’d get to see Betty White in person tonight. She was the Beastly Ball Chairman. That woman was a national treasure. And probably the only one that would be spared if the animals rose up.

He sliced up another of the more popular menu items being gobbled up by donors. The Mane Attraction hero had been a hit with the carnivores as suspected. Despite the surging heat, he’d kept his nose down and worked in the background the entire evening. Piper and Jen were the all-smiles servers, front and center, greeting the deep-pockets milling about the food tent.

“‘Scuse me, lad?”

It was the addition of ‘lad’ to the second question from a very Scottish sounding woman that had him look up.

Turned out, he didn’t need to look up very high. An elegant, petite wisp of a porcelain lady stared up at him. One of her copper-tinted brows arched. Lush, fiery red ringlets cascaded from the top of her head to her pointy elbows. A dusty peach wrap made of silk hung and clung to a body made for ballet. The chunky black vinyl belt with a sequin studded buckle cinched the dress in at the waist.

She was magically delicious.

Priestly smiled and wiped the roast beef gravy from his hands. He then pointed to Jen manning the front table. “One of our lovely servers will be able to plate up anything you’d like to try, Miss.”

“Including you?” Her coral stained lips curled up into a grin.

Priestly froze. He had to have heard her wrong in the middle of all the noise. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

One of the woman’s expertly manicured fingers pointed at his chest. “Are you being canny with that shirt? Or, would that be an actual invitation, there, then?”

Priestly gulped. “Um…”

The woman offered a playful frown. “Well, when you get your voice back, you let me know the answer, aye?”

Rowena didn’t have time to wait for the pretty punk boy to remember how to form sentences. So, she’d sampled the vegetarian sandwich the mousy haired twenty-something called The Panda Munch and then it was off toward the animal habitats.

She had work to do and little patience.

The rowdy bunch of guests, chatting and being all kinds of obnoxious for over ten minutes, had taken root by a particular set of sanctuaries that held her interest.

She stood by the guard rail on the opposite side of the walkway, sipping from a champagne flute. Her fingernails tapped the top of the fence. She gazed over at a nearby pond. The current inner debate in her head was whether she should ignite the shoes aflame of the loudest person in the group or temporarily immobilize his tongue.

The ticket to attend this pathetic attempt at a soiree had been overpriced. Good cause her arse. A good cause was exacting any bit of covert revenge she could toward the Grand Coven. An even better cause was finding a way to unshackle her powers.

And what she currently required –to fund the greatest cause, which was herself– could be pilfered more easily under the veil of night. Amid distracted security, overworked zoo staff, and intoxicated guests, what could go wrong?

Rowena sighed and eavesdropped on the eejit in the lavender polo shirt drone on about the Lakers. She watched him pretend to dribble out of the corner of her eye.

A majority of the upper echelon of Angelenos could be trite and vapid. All surface, no substance. But that also made them easy to grift. If she stayed under the radar for another year or two, her little shop might be a very lucrative business.

An announcement interrupted the awful excuse for music emanating from the stage some ways off where most of the guests congregated. Betty White would be giving a speech in about ten minutes.

That got the group moving.

“Finally,” Rowena murmured. She abandoned the glass atop the guard rail and sashayed toward her target. Her gaze landed on a security camera high atop a lamp post. She whispered, “Confractus.” A satisfied smile emerged at the subsequent sizzle and crack from the surveillance equipment.

“Go, take a break.” Jen shooed Priestly with her hands. “Betty’ll be on soon. I don’t want to hear you complain later about missing that.”

“Are you sure?” Priestly untied the black waist apron.

Jen nodded. “Anything that makes you smile should not be denied.”

Priestly knew Jen really wanted to say, “We’re sick and tired of seeing you all mopey since Tish moved to New York.”

“Maybe you can get her to autograph your shirt,” Piper added with a giggle.

“Betty appreciates a dirty joke.” Priestly nodded with certainty.

Jen cleared her throat. “You’re definitely making a statement with it.”

“Oh! Don’t forget that dude at the Whiskey distillery stand said to stop by and get us some samples in exchange for these.” Piper shoved three wrapped sandwiches in Priestly’s hands.

“Right, I’ll go do that before Betty. Back faster than The Flash.”

Rowena had gotten turned around more than twice on the Employees Only path. Nestled amid the Night Wing area terrain, the dirt walk lacked signage for the untrained. A paltry number of floodlights scattered warm amber streaks here and there to guide the way.

Why didn’t the coordinators of this benefit include a flashlight in their extra large swag bag? “Buncha beetroots,” Rowena mumbled, hefting the cumbersome tote over her shoulder. At least she could have both hands free when needed later, what with her tiny clutch now in the bag’s bottom.

To add to the indecency of the two other cameras she had to decommission along the path, a staff member had chanced upon her stumbling through foliage in black vinyl thigh high boots. Steel nerves she’d forged over a few centuries rattled only for a second. The young male, whose time on this planet tallied up to nothing more than a couple decades, had been quite amicable. He’d politely offered to escort her to the main path.

Rowena thanked him and followed his lead for a few yards while he made small talk. She fished out her clutch, found a hex bag, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and then glamoured him. He rotated slow and turned to face her.

With syrupy sweetness, Rowena asked to be directed to the owl habitat entrance and unlock it. He stammered, with dilated pupils and enamored smile, that it was only his third day on the job and he didn’t know which gate that was.

“Well, there shan’t be any harm in you opening up a gate or two for lil ole me, would there?” She batted her long lashes even though there was no need. Rowena did enjoy leaning into theatrics.

The junior zookeeper bobbed his head, turned, and floated back the way he came. “Follow me.”

The abrupt temperature change required Priestly to slip on his tartan plaid vest over his t-shirt. Away from the benefit crowd, the night air cooled slick spots of sweaty skin.

Listening to Betty White wax poetic about her love of animals had made all the hard work worthwhile. She’d even given him a cheeky little wink from the stage. Seriously, Priestly thought he might have a major crush on the woman. She was even funnier and more radiant in person than he’d expected. She could be his Golden Girl any damn day of the week.

After he, Jen, and Piper toasted with Whiskey samples to a job well done, he’d been released from cleanup duty. Excitement filled the segment of his brain in which the still six-year-old part of him resided. Okay, so it wasn’t like he was sneaking through the zoo. Staff members stationed at various checkpoints and exhibits nodded in greeting as he passed. But the grounds, typically experienced in the light and warmth of sunshine, now crackled with a forbidden energy.

It was nice to feel some excitement. His emotional state of late had been devastated. He hadn’t been able to shake himself out of the volley between self-pity and feeling responsible for Tish’s move. Maybe if he’d been more (more what, though), she would have stayed and they could have worked things out.

The three shots of whiskey had not helped the spiral of self-doubt. He hadn’t been enough. Pure and simple. Had it been juvenile to think his “normal” makeover would have been the key to winning over the girl of his dreams? Of course. Did that make it hurt any less that it hadn’t worked out? Of course not.

He recalled the flirty, testy banter with Tish over the years. She could slap him onto a sizzling griddle or submerge him in a bucket of ice with that sharp tongue and flippant hair toss. That drew him to her even more. He admitted to himself early on that he really liked how she took charge of a situation and gave zero fucks. That was what she presented to everyone on the surface, anyway. She’d been hurt. Sensitive. Cautious to risk any more of her heart. The armor had thickened. Just like him.

In the end, they’d been pretty compatible. But, in hindsight, most of that had been due to his ability to bend and compromise. She didn’t tell him much about what she wanted. He had to guess. Trial and error. And that attitude had transferred to what happened in the bedroom.

Priestly wasn’t a fucking mind reader. He didn’t have a clue. He figured she liked confidence and showmanship between the sheets. The kind that could run a porn marathon without breaking a sweat.

But that wasn’t him. And he could only keep that up (heh, child) for so long.

The same went for the preppie exterior he tried on to win her over. A few weeks after their first kiss, he snuck back on one of his piercings. Then another. And another. And another. Then the hair got dyed (fuschia). Then spiked up with gel. Next, he sported some eyeliner. He pulled out a signature statement t-shirt here and there. Dusting off the kilt might have been the last straw for Tish.

But he wanted to like the reflection in the mirror. All that skin-shedding pleased Tish. Not him.

So, the relationship met its inevitable conclusion and broke his heart. They’d agreed to revert to friendship status. He hadn’t expected Tish to up and leave a couple of months after that, though.

Jen had said it best one day. Tish probably couldn’t piece herself back together again here, around him. Fresh start and all. Finding your fucking self and all that bullshit.

That was all fine and good for everybody else. How was he supposed to figure that out for himself? Would he ever find someone that was willing to learn that along with him?

The zoo minion had been quite helpful for Rowena. Three gates unlocked in total. He’d made suggestions on the best direction to begin the owl search after her explanation on where they liked to hide. She’d thanked him kindly, pilfered his tiny flashlight, and then wafted a Forget Me spell over the man. “You won’t remember me or any of this. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the night off? You deserve it for being soooo helpful.”

He toddled off repeating, “Sooo helpful.”

Times like this, an assistant in the dark arts would be a boon. This kind of menial labor, well, it was beneath her to be honest. Having to scour grasslands for a hole in the ground? She might as well be a pig, snout covered in dirt, snuffling for truffles.

Though truffles were delicious, she was in search of a Burrowing Owl. She’d done her research of course. No self-respecting witch starts something without the proper information. Sourcing all the ingredients for this divination spell –one of her own crafting– was a daunting task. But, what was the saying these Americans liked to bandy about? Go big or go home?

And one didn’t diddle with the Grand Coven without a well thought out plan. One required impregnable magic that a dozen of the most powerful witches on the planet would attempt to untangle.

Rowena held more power in her pinky finger than any of them before the Coven had punished her egotism and shackled her abilities. She needed to get that power back and back at them in the process. But in order to find what would cut right to the core, divide and conquer, would require eavesdropping. The divination spell would uncover the cloaked locations for those she needed to sentence for their condemnation.

Rowena’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. Silhouettes danced around the beam of white cast by the flashlight. Flying insects sparkled in the halo of light like falling snow. Her toe boots dug into the dirt here and there.

What would she do if this didn’t work as she hoped? She’d paid a high price for what she’d been told were the feathers of a Burrowing Owl on the black market. When the spell fell flat the only thing that could have been incorrect were the bloody feathers. But who would she complain to or demand a refund? Boris, or whatever his name was, wasn’t registered with the Better Business Bureau. She already had enough enemies.

So, it appeared serendipitous when an invitation for the Beastly Ball landed in her mailbox. She’d made a call to the LA Zoo’s information center and chatted with a lovely woman. The tale of having a daughter obsessed with owls spilled with ease and believability. This made-up child had been going on and on about an owl that squatted in another animal’s home in the dirt. They were in luck. It just so happened the zoo had a burrowing owl in their exhibit. The woman on the other end did warn Rowena her daughter might be disappointed, though. The chances of seeing one during the day were quite rare.

Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d disappointed an offspring.

More importantly, the universe sent her a clear message.

Take matters into your own hands.

Several minutes passed. A strong breeze rustled swaths of grass. Lots of ginger steps and toe boot shovels later, she came across a promising hole. Her heart raced. She bent down to inspect with a ruffle of fingers along the grass. A sharp quill pricked her thumb. Her hand cascaded over the soft frills of a feather. Then another. And another.

Hopefully, the feathers belonged to an owl that had fit itself into the burrow of another animal (or a facsimile of one made by a staff person). It had to be a Burrower!

Three feathers snatched off the ground were stuffed into her swag bag. Rowena surmised they would have fit into her little clutch as well. However, the bag proved an auspicious benefit souvenir.

She rose and dusted off her hands. Eyes closed, she inhaled deep, then exhaled. When she opened her eyes, she oriented her direction as best she could. She could reverse-track the way she came. A sigh released from her throat, satisfied. One step closer. She began the journey.

She passed once again through the forested area of the exhibit, which, in her opinion, better-suited owls. The sharp smell of pine filled her nose.

Her steps halted at the alien chuckling right above her head. Rowena stared up and squinted. She debated for a moment before shining the flashlight upon the sound source.

A set of bright yellow eyes peered back at her. It chuckled again. The tiniest owl Rowena had ever seen wasn’t spooked by the light. It couldn’t have been any bigger in stature than her hand.

“Aren’t you a curious little thing?”

It tilted its head as if answering in the affirmative. Rowena could make out expertly lined white eyebrows created by its feathers.

Rowena had always wanted an owl.

Was this another message from the universe?

Rowena pursed her lips.

There was only one way to find out.

Priestly stood under the spotlight by the Night Wing exhibit map. He’d learned a few new interesting facts about bats and owls as he continued to read.

A commotion within the fenced area pulled his attention from the signage. A figure bursted from the tree line a couple of yards away. He jumped back in surprise. “What the…”

He squinted. Crouched on the ground, the person gasped, almost hyperventilating.

He blinked in recognition. It was the red-headed woman earlier from the food tent who’d made quite an impression. “Are you alright?” he stammered out the question.

Her head shot up. Wide eyes stared back framed in a wild mess of curls. He gulped at the skin on display under the lamp post light. Tiny red marks crosshatched along her arms and bare back. She clutched a tote over her chest. The top half of her dress hung in tatters over her belt.

Priestly raised his hands and approached slow. “What happened?” He knelt beside her.

“I-I-” She waved a hand, arms tight to her sides so the flimsy bag’s material could preserve some modesty. “I went down that path” –she pointed back from where she appeared– “and, a bunch of the exhibit gates were opened.” Her voice cracked. “Before I knew it, there were owls and bats, everywhere, and I-I got caught in this awful melee.”

Priestly wanted to pat her in comfort. But, considering she was half-naked, he thought better of it. “The gates were opened?” he asked, incredulous. He scanned the path as far as he could in both directions. “Where the hell’s an employee when you need one? Is this Best Buy? They were everywhere a little while ago.” He muttered to himself before gazing at the woman. “You’re hurt. I’m gonna go get some help.”

He rose, only to be snatched up into a fierce embrace. She fisted his vest with both hands. The tote’s canvas material, which held some stiff objects, smushed tight between their bodies. “No,” she begged. “Please, don’t get anyone. I’m in such a state. I’ll be mortified.”

Priestly lifted his hands up and away so there was no chance of an accidental brush or touch. He felt like the one in trouble at the moment. “Um,” he thought out loud. An idea formed. “Listen, you need to get looked at by someone. But let’s work on getting you out of here first. Okay?”

She nodded into his chest. He inhaled. Her scent was rather pleasant. Spicy and sharp.

“Why don’t you go behind that sign there? I’ll give you my shirt to put on.”

“Alright.”

He breathed in relief when she released him. A fast blur scurried around the area map. Without wasting time, he peeled off his vest, dropped it to the ground, and then tugged the T-shirt over his head by the collar. He turned around and stepped backward until his side hit the hardwood of the sign. “Here.” Eager fingers snatched the material from his hand.

“Thank you.”

The lilt in her voice fluttered Priestly’s heartbeat. Goosebumps formed on the back of his neck. He wanted to blame it on the cool air skirting along his bare chest. “No problem,” he said. He tried again. “Are you sure I can’t go and look for some help? I think I saw a medical tent near the stage.”

“No!” She expelled the word with force from her throat that time.

“Sure. Sure.” He mumbled as his gaze scoured the ground. He picked up the discarded vest and plunged his arms through the openings. The benefit coordinators probably wouldn’t appreciate a punk Tarzan impersonation.

“I’m very grateful for this. Truly.” The woman called out. “What can I call you, besides my knight in shining armor?”

He chuckled. “Um, Priestly.”

“Presley?”

“No, Priestly.” He emphasized the “t”.

“Oh. Priestly,” she repeated. “I’m Rowena.” Her voice was closer now, no barrier between them.

Cautious, Priestly looked up. He couldn’t help but smile at the vision before him. She stuffed the remnants of her dress in the big bag. The forest green shirt, slightly roomy on him, swallowed up her slight frame. She’d wrapped the big black belt around it. The bottom hem fell just above the top of her thigh high boots. Her fingers threaded through the mane of hair to wrangle it in place. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, Rowena.”

She sighed and grinned at him. “Aye. But, we might not have met again if not for this.”

He recalled her flirtation from earlier. He stared at the design and text on the shirt he had custom made for the Beastly Ball. A cartoon panda munched away on some bamboo. A text bubble above the panda’s head declared in big, bold font: Raw Dog Me, I’m a Bottom.

She strolled over and rested a hand on his vest. “How can I ever repay such chivalry?” She whispered something else after the question… something he couldn’t make out.

Before he could ask her to repeat what she’d said, his thoughts clouded. Nothing seemed very important at the moment. A sense of relaxation washed over him.

“I would very much appreciate a walk back to my car, Priestly. And, I promise I’ll make sure I get myself straight to a hospital.”

He nodded. His head bobbed and swayed. “Good idea. I mean, yeah, bats and owls. You probably need a rabies shot.”

“Probably so.” She nodded in agreement. Her grin reached her ears. She held up a business card and tucked it in another one of his vest pockets. “But, you. You’re going to stop by my shop soon to pick up this shirt, aye?”

He smiled, then nodded. “Aye.”

~~To Be Continued~~

Story Notes: Google pics of a Burrowing Owl and the absolutely adorable Elf Owl. I have plans for this story to fill four bingo squares over as many parts. Things are gonna go off the rails (and probably quite smutty). Will see how my first foray into writing for Priestly goes. Also, so many thanks to @sam-is-my-safe-word for brainstorming all the chaos and kink with me.

#jacklesversebingo23 #boaz priestly #rowena macleod #fanfic #light angst #fluff #humor #flirting

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tarisilmarwen · 10 months

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Rebels Rewatch: "Twilight of the Apprentice"

The shadow of Malachor looms in the very highly-anticipated Season 2 finale.

Right, so, technically I've already liveblogged this before and you can go here for some of my more, ah, realtime reactions.

(Spoiler alert: There was a LOT of screaming.)

So for this and other episodes that I've already reacted to before I'm mostly going to be focusing more on commentary and meta observations and also my favorite bits and moments, music and animation, that kind of stuff.

Let's dive in!

Ooh right off the bat we have the more serious version of the "Shenanigans" cue.

I know this exchange here between Ahsoka and Rex is a callback to when they first met. So a heart stab for TCW fans.

One thing I notice about Malachor right away is how dead it looks, even from space. Just a featureless plain gray marble.

We get down to the surface and it's even eerier. In the middle of a giant crater there's this wide, unnaturally glasslike smooth plain, only broken up by weird towering stone monoliths.

Malachor's whole aesthetic leans very heavily into the idea and theme of descending into the Underworld, into a place of darkness and shadows where the light can't reach. Somewhere underground, somewhere full of devils and demons lurking in wait, with many hidden traps and temptations to stumble over.

Like the one Ezra triggers by touching the monolith lol.

This really isn't a survivable fall but whatever.

The Sith Temple is actually kind of beautiful in a stark, harsh, Gothic kind of way.

This whole environment is really excellently creepy and ethereal. The ceiling above recalls a night sky, the holes like pinprick stars casting beams of light down. The palate is almost colorless, mostly grays and blacks with some splashes of red and white. The lighting is muted and dim, heavy contrast with the shadows. The music relies on dissonant chords. The sound effects are full of watery rumbles, voices whisper quietly that apparently only Ezra can hear.

Oh and there's the scorched ground and statues of people frozen in distress, like the casts at Pompeii.

"To defeat your enemy, you have to understand them." A sentiment echoed and repeated later by both Maul and Thrawn, and inspired by the writings of Sun Tzu in his Art of War. You have to figure your enemy out, learn how they operate and what motivates them, in order to beat them. "Knowledge" is another word they keep using this episode, our heroes need to seek knowledge about the Sith in order to figure out how to defeat them.

I'm still not quite sure what knowledge they were actually able to gain during this trip. Certainly the Force did basically slap the truth of Vader's identity in Ahsoka's face, to get her to confront it and break through her denial. There's maybe a lesson to be learned about not seeking quick, easy solutions to one's problems, which wouldn't fully sink in until "Twin Suns". (Ezra's obsession with finding "the key to destroy the Sith" can be traced straight back to the Malachor plot thread.) There's definitely a cautionary tale and warning about the nature of the Dark Side, that Ezra completely ignores due to his guilt and shame and self-blame.

On the surface level, technically, the mission does accomplish what it set out to do. All the Inquisitors we know about wind up dead, Vader no longer has any interest in harassing them, they keep the base safe. But boy the cost of it all.

It's probably really fitting that the finale takes place here on Malachor, a dead world with nothing left but stone remains and a creepy Eldritch Sith Temple housing a superweapon that must have killed everyone and everything on the surface, in the vein of The Deplorable Word or a nuclear bomb metaphor. The victory is hollow and meaningless, because there is no one left alive to appreciate it. Likewise our heroes' "victory" is pyrrhic and empty, they kill the Inquisitors but take more and heavier losses in return.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even met Eighth yet.

Hi Eighth!

He's not really developed or explored at all and is really just a generic episode-specific antagonist and ancillary to Seventh and Fifth, but he serves his narrative purpose in splitting the party.

Kanan's worried shout for Ezra after he falls. <3

Ezra looking very nervous here, don't blame him.

HI MAUL!

Oh man, the pre-finale trailers spoiled Maul's appearance and fandom was bonkers about it. (The pre-finale anticipation and hype was crazy man, so much over-analyzing and hypothesizing. There was a Bingo Card we could fill out with our theories. This one was mine.) Not a small amount of people were speculating about the possibility of Maul corrupting and/or abducting Ezra at Malachor.

I was one of them. Obviously. Still a smidge bummed it didn't come to pass, just imagine how devastating that would have been on top of everything else.

Anyway, Maul pretends to be frail and weak and old and harmless like some kind of sick parody of the scene in ESB when Yoda's introduced to Luke.

The appropriate reaction to creepy old men lurking in the shadows lol.

Maul plays on Ezra's compassion at first, and then tempts him with what they came for, "knowledge". Ezra keeps a guard up, but cautiously allows Maul to lead him. I think he's figuring he's going to play this by ear like he did back in "Brothers of the Broken Horn", so he's not giving out his name or really trusting Maul yet. That would come later.

Lol, Maul has met Jabba, he knows full well Ezra's playing him.

There's some excellent tense music for the chase with Eighth Brother but I'm not going to really talk about those segments much since, frankly, all the interesting stuff is happening in the Maul and Ezra scenes.

They're in the roots of the Temple now, very Mines of Moria-esque vibe down here with the columns.

Maul still trying to break Ezra's guard down, playing himself up as an enemy of the Inquisitors and the Sith (even though for all intents and purposes Maul still is a Sith) and I love how awkward things get when Ezra asks him if he was a Jedi, he's all like, "ERRRRRRMMMM."

Talking about his Tragic Backstory though unlocks Ezra's empathy and Ezra lets slip his own grievances with the Empire that Maul immediately tries to manipulate to his advantage, sensing Ezra's anger about it.

Boy if I had a nickel for every time my favorite shows explored the "creepy older villain forcibly trying to make a younger hero their apprentice" plotline...

(I would actually have three nickels now because the Big Hero 6 cartoon also decided to do that plot YOU GUYS GOTTA FIGURE OUT SOMETIME THAT THIS PREMISE IS BASICALLY CATNIP FOR ME.)

Anyway, at this point I think Maul's mostly just using Ezra as a means to an end, he's not planning to kidnap him yet, just needs him for the doors. It's really interesting that whereas the Jedi Temple on Lothal emphasized the individual journey and separated the master and padawan, the Sith Temple forces them into kind of a codependent symbiosis--if one betrays the other like Sith are wont to do, the prize is lost and both of them die--making them have to use teamwork and a certain level of trust.

Chopper stealing Eighth's TIE to use against him is pretty awesome, admittedly.

Maul gives Ezra an abridged lesson in Sith/Dark Side philosophy: Channel your passions--your fear, anger, hate, any strong emotions etc.--through the Force for a lot of quick easy power. Ezra expresses misgivings but attempts it and this time does not immediately pass out, though he's clearly tired by the end of it.

Oh man the sound design here.

Also love that annoyed look Maul gives when Ezra complains about their progress. XD

"Yeah I'm killing you after this, I don't have to deal with this shit."

Watching the expressions on Maul's face is a trip, you can see the subtle little flashes of conniving and triumph.

Aaaaaand every time Maul puts his hands on Ezra I still feel an immediate uncomfortable protective rage. You leave him alone you cockroach. >:(

Enjoy the last vestiges of Ezra's innocence folks, this episode is what shatters that to pieces.

Always loved this sequence, it feels very evocative of the Cave of Wonders segment of Aladdin and also several scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

SO much symbolism with the precipices and pits here.

Love this music cue too.

I already noted in a different post way back when that something subtle I love is how Maul's Force Grip catch around Ezra is clearly much rougher than how Kanan has caught him. Ezra's tiny panicked glances down are great too.

So riiiiiiiiiight about here is when I think Maul decided he was going to keep Ezra, you can see in his expression the mean satisfaction when he grabs the holocron, like he's gotten what he wanted. Ezra gets a prolonged moment of regretting all of his life's decisions before Maul finally decides to haul him up.

Look I know fandom makes fun of the helicopter sabers but I never minded them so this is my only comment about them.

Gah, Ezra's innocent little uncertain expressions here always hurt me.

You know, given the added context of TCW Seaason 7, along with the fact that they had already clearly integrated the unfinished arcs into the background continuity while writing Rebels, AHSOKA YOU SHOULD HAVE REALLY WARNED THEM ABOUT MAUL.

Cool shot is cool.

I haven't talked about the music much because it doesn't really stand out until the climax but it's appropriately menacing and dramatic and ominous, as it should be.

Sam Whitwer's vocal progression through the episode is also amazing, along with the slow shedding of his hood it's like Maul is revitalizing himself, reinvigorated, reclaiming his strength and purpose.

He found something (Ezra) to hang his legacy on and seized it. Or tried to.

Ezra sounds just a bit desperate to convince Kanan, this is likely a product of the straining tensions between them. Maul, meanwhile, takes full advantage of Ahsoka and Kanan's uncertainty to suggest using the holocron to activate the obelisk, not telling them of course that it will turn on the Sith superweapon. Which he's counting on to kill Vader and the Inquisitors.

Ezra's theme in cello bass here, as Kanan decides to trust Ezra.

Almost forgot about Seventh's ID-9 Seekers, didn't we?

Love Kanan's protective bitchiness towards Maul this whole episode. The conflict between him and Ezra is just a little bit contrived, Kanan's been harder on Ezra recently yes, but it also feels a smidge rushed. Then again Ezra's been fixating on trying to solve the fundamental problem of the Inquisitors possibly as a way to assuage his grief over losing his parents, like Anakin he thinks if he can maybe just get enough power he can prevent it from happening again, so he's letting his impulsiveness reign in the quest to find "the key to destroying the Sith" and it's making him have a repeat of "Vision of Hope" where he trusts the wrong person.

Ezra's bright little, "Trust me." here hurts so much because Kanan does trust Ezra, that's the only reason why he decided they would stay and then it all goes HORRIBLY WRONG *SOBS*.

This is a nice sentiment and all Ahsoka, and it shows how much faith you have in Ezra's goodness and Kanan's ability as a teacher BUT ALSO YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED THEM.

Ezra's out of sight for like a minute and Maul's already picking at his insecurities and need for validation and trying to get him to murderize Seventh.

The momentary pride we feel that Ezra can't bring himself to strike in anger and hate vanishes when Maul tests the veeeeeery limits of the Y7 rating.

Ooof.

I hate this man I hate this man I hate this man I hate him so much. He snarls at Ezra for hesitating, berates his merciful Jedi instincts, and then picks up with that soft manipulative fake concerned tone again. He always uses this tone when he's trying to manipulate Ezra, we'll be watching for it next season, trust me.

Hhggnnl Maul glancing up and seeing the shadow passing over the gaps in the ceiling, he knows Vader's on his way. And he's definitely already made the decision that he's taking Ezra.

Love this brief triumphant cue here, for a moment it looks like they've won.

The matching "Oh crap" expressions on Kanan and Ahsoka's faces when Maul says, "You mean... my apprentice?" they are just a hair too late to prevent disaster.

Yeah so this moment pretty much traumatized fandom. For months.

DUEL OF THE FATES BABY!

And a very unhinged Maul getting a little too excited about using the Sith superweapon to kill everyone.

The presence in the holocron is likely a trace of the Sith Lord who created the superweapon, Darth Tanis.

Sound design appreciation moment, just LISTEN to it.

"The power will be mine! Ezra will be mine!" Very hinged. Much sane. If you had waited maybe five minutes, Maul, and resisted the urge to murder everyone you could have actually had what you wanted! But such is the nature of the Dark Side, the quick and easy way offers fast solutions but hollow ones, in the grasping for what you want it slips through your fingers.

ALL MAUL HAD TO DO WAS NOT TRY TO MURDER KANAN AND AHSOKA AND EZRA PROBABLY WOULD HAVE GONE WITH HIM. At the very least Kanan might have tentatively let Maul hang around. This is the tragedy of Maul's life, he is the king of self-sabotage.

[Insert ramble about the symbolism of Kanan taking up a Temple Guardian mask and how that relates to his role as Ezra's protector.]

I don't remember I think there was maybe one or two people who complained that Kanan shouldn't be able to beat Maul here, but for the most part fandom was agreed that this was awesome.

:(((

Please do note: Maul just kind of... assumed Ezra would use the Sith superweapon when he learned what it was. Ezra's too pure for that, alas.

WELL THAT'S NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING.

Ezra sassing Vader like Kanan sassed the Grand Inquisitor back in "Call To Action" lol.

And there goes Ezra's blaster-saber. :(

I've been a very good girl conserving my limited photos so now you get a lot of Ezra's terrified face.

The Ahsoka-Vader confrontation is pretty much perfect, even for someone who never really watched TCW and doesn't really have the same level of investment as a long time fan would have. Even without the context the emotions and drama come across well.

Ezra veeeeeeerrrrrrrry slowly and carefully trying to scoot away from Vader always makes me giggle.

Vader threatening to torture the information out of Ezra if Ahsoka won't give up any remaining Jedi she knows about. :(((

:((((((((

Still love how TCW recontextualized Ahsoka's angry, "I am no Jedi!" by reframing it as, "I can't be a Jedi anymore, you took that away from me, you killed the Order I loved and wanted to return to!"

I think I heard someone trying to describe Vader here as, "Picture an upright locomotive with a lightsaber." and that's apt, Vader is so heavy and powerful with every movement and swing. This is Vader in his prime, unleashed, against an opponent he won't hold back on and it is glorious.

Chopper guiding Kanan by the hand. :(((

Ezra's horrified realization. :(((((

Small note: Ezra's been nursing his right wrist this whole time, possibly sprained or burned a bit when Vader destroyed his saber. Also a nice parallel to ESB and Luke.

Ahsoka does her best but you can tell she's tiring here.

Some gorgeous animation as the Temple begins to seal back up.

How annoyed do you think Vader must have been to have a blind half-trained ex-Padawan and a scrawny 16-year-old kid managing to fight his Force Pull on the holocron?

Ahsoka swoops in for a Big Damn Heroes moment and breaks open his mask. You're welcome for the nightmares, kids.

Hello so many parallels to Luke and Return of the Jedi.

:(((((

Very effective bringing the orchestra full to the fore with almost no other sound or dialogue here. This whole sequence is brutally powerful.

Kanan and Hera's heartbreaking reunion. The sorrow on Rex's face, feeding into Ezra's clear guilt. Maul surviving to menace us another day. Vader limping off, out of the wreckage of the Temple. Tracking the convor as it flies towards the vague form of Ahsoka descending further into the Temple. The cut to the Ghost with everyone's silent worry and sorry. And closing on Ezra's murderous Kubrick Stare as he gets the holocron to open.

This finale is on people's favorite episode lists for a reason, lol. It's so dramatic and game-changing and tightly-written, leaves us perfectly fuming in anticipation for more.

You know how shows promise that, "Nothing will be the same anymore." in taglines to trick you into watching for the Next Big Twist? Rebels actually delivers on that promise.

It's an amazing ride.

Overall Season Thoughts:

Season Two is stronger than Season One in a lot of aspects. The animation is even prettier with the added budget, the stories remain well-balanced and woven together even with the added breathing room of twenty-two episodes to Season One's fifteen. The show takes advantage of that extra room to build up the finale, especially in the last few episodes, to very good effect. The expanded scope means we're facing bigger and greater threats, and also widening our cast, and yet none of the guest stars overshadow or overpower our mains, who are given plenty of chances to develop and shine.

Aside from one minor misstep in "Blood Sisters", this season is solid through and through.

Onwards to Season Three!

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #space dad and his precious pumpkin child #rebels rewatch #liveblog #spoilers #cute boys in peril

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transskywardsword · 3 months

Text

Pertaining to Demon Kings

eeeeyyyyy after ages, it's finally here, the second official chapter of Heroes Gate, which is a Ghirahim's pov chapter. Ghirahim has been an absolute JOY to write, he is so mean. so mean. If you haven't read the first chapter of Heroes Gate, Dawning, I'd HIGHLY recommend you do so. You can read it and the other drabbles for heroes gate here on ao3. if you are interested in the AU as a whole, more info on it can be found here!

*note: ghirahim, yuga, and zant are not present in this au's version of hyrule warriors, as even in an au abt time line shenanigans that's just too much for my brain

also, shout out to the zelda name drop, we'll be crossing over with zelda's universe soon! @thebleedingeffect asked to be tagged when this came out, if anyone one else would like to be added to a tag list just lmk!

---

The spirit floated in the sheer gossamer of nonexistence, an oil spill across black waters, a splatter of emotion and vague consciousness, not enough to think but enough to rage. It had been thrown there when the filthy flesh creature attempted to butcher its Master, sealing away his divine being at the last moment, some sick mockery of mercy. In the crack between the Sacred Realm and the Realm of Reality, its anger raged on, vicious and violent. It consumed its very being, till all that was left of a once proud vessel was a puddle of fury. There was no time in the void, no thoughts, nothing but an all-consuming need to scratch and bite and maul, to rip the flesh creature limb from limb and baptize its Master in the damn thing’s blood. The thing’s screams would serve as a blessed hymn as its Master rose, and when they were finally silenced, it would revel in the decay and rot. That image was the closest it came to concrete thought, and it thought of it often.

It was dimly surprised when a noise broke through the black absence of creation. There was no sound in nonexistence, no sound or taste or touch, just rage.

There came the sound again. Its eyes moved behind its eyelids—since when did it have eyelids? Since when had it been aware enough to question if it had anything?

It focused on the eyelids, twitched them, and marveled at how they responded to its commands. It moved its closed eyes, flickering them back and forth, and felt the muscle move. They weren’t supposed to—nothing moved in the void. So how could—

There came the sound again. A command? A name?

Did it have a name? Its Master had called it something once, blessed it with a title, but it couldn’t seem to remember. Remember—was it capable of remembering? It remembered the touch of its Master’s firm, fiery scales, remembered the hotness of the flesh creature’s blood, remembered the pulse of the Spirit Maiden under his fingers—

Fingers. Fingers? He had fingers?

There came that noise again. It was, frankly, quite annoying. He wanted it to shut up, and twitched his lips, ready to tell it to. Lips, lips, lips…

He had been proud of his lips, his face, the body his Master gave him the honor of sculpting. The Goddess Sword never changed her form, but his Master had gifted him with a freedom the Goddess, that holy bitch, never did.

Ghirahim opened his eyes.

A trio of white, smooth faces leaned over him in his frame of vision. They each had only one eye, red and piercing—a mask? A mask. The masked trio whispered to each other in a rough language Ghirahim knew well. The eye upon their faces mocked him, its bloody teardrop so bitterly familiar.

Sheikah. The Goddess’s loyal dogs come to finish him off. A black, metallic hand shot out and wrapped around the first Sheikah’s neck—a hand, his hand, black and smooth, his final form, his most natural state— and squeezed.

Grind-crunch-snap

The Sheikah went still as its neck buckled and crumbled under Ghirahim’s steel grip. Ghirahim threw the body to the side, and it rolled, skidding across the floor and coming to a stop on its stomach, legs splayed around it like a forgotten toy. Ghirahim rose to his feet, towering over the other Sheikah, who scuttled back. One raised a sickle, the other a demon carver, barking orders in their language. Ghirahim followed orders from one person and one person only, and the Sky Child had locked him away where he thought no one would ever find him. Foolish. Ghirahim would always find his Master, would raise him from the ashes of the Surface and the Sky, would make him a feast from the Sky Child’s blood and bone.

“Halt!” one Sheikah called, voice muffled by her mask, and Ghirahim quickly silenced her with a flick of his wrist and a shower of daggers, each ripping through her uniform like a burning knife through butter. Ghirahim grinned. It felt good to grin. It felt good to see the blood pooling, darkening her red uniform from crimson to rust, and it felt good to hear the gurgle of someone drowning in their own blood after who knew how long in that pit of nonexistence. He breathed in deeply. The smell of fear and blood and the Sheikah’s guts meeting air as they spilled across her feet was familiar and invigorating.

He was alive, and once he disposed of these protectors of Hylia he was going to track down Link and make him wish he’d left the Goddess’ Vessel to rot on the Surface and never came face to face with Ghirahim. Deafening him on his own screams, strangling him with his own small intestine—that was child’s play compared to what Ghirahim would do to him. They would invent new words just to describe the agony Ghirahim was going to carve into the man, would run out of ways to label the sounds Ghirahim would force from him.

The third Sheikah dropped their demon carver and scrambled back, shaking like an autumn leaf as they begged for—for something. Ghirahim couldn’t be bothered to care. They switched between language after language: Sheikah, some strange dialect of Hylian, then even older, darker languages that no pet of the Goddess would ever be permitted to learn.

Interesting. But not interesting enough.

“Please—” The Sheikah said, their tongue stumbling as they tried to speak, “We mean you no—”

Ghirahim moved forward, lightning fast, and the Sheikah shrieked. They were surprisingly light as Ghirahim wrapped a metal hand around their throat and lifted, the pathetic creature kicking and wheezing as Ghirahim drew them to his face. They clawed at their neck, trying to pray Ghirahim’s fingers apart, and Ghirahim laughed, his voice shrill and loud.

“Where are they?” He hissed, face inches from the Sheikah’s mask.

“Wh—wh—”

“The Spirit Maiden, her dog, and the Hero. Where is Link?”

“It worked,” a voice behind them breathed. It was nasally, with a heavy Sheikah accent. “It worked!”

The second time they spoke, their voice shook with excitement, and Ghirahim bit back an annoyed snarl. He spun on his heels, and threw the sniveling creature in his hand at the speaker, who lunged out of the way. It was dressed differently than the three Sheikah who now lay bleeding and broken across the floor, its clothing more ornate and detailed, mask painted with greater care, with a wide stomach and short legs. The Sheikah bowed at the waist, his mask nearly brushing his knees, arms swept wide.

“Lord Ghirahim. A pleasure.”

Ghirahim fluttered his fingers, and the obsidian sword he was so fond of blinked into existence. A sword’s favorite sword.

“Wait!” The Sheikah hurried back to an upright position. “It would be a shame to die after going through all the effort to summon you,” he said, with surprisingly little fear in his voice. Hm.

Ghirahim raised his sword, pointing the blade down his arm towards the man’s girthy middle.

“Where is your Hero.” Despite the words, it was clear that this was a demand, not a question.

“That is a tricky question at the moment.” The Sheikah said. “Which one? I think we’re up to twelve now.”

“… What?”

“Please, Lord Ghirahim, sit. I’ll bring you a chair, and we can discuss this like civilized people over some banana chips. Footsoldier Ere—”

“On it, Master!”

Ghirahim lowered his blade. The Sheikah (master?) wasn’t a threat (couldn’t be a threat, not against the likes of him) and had proven to be interesting enough to earn himself a few extra seconds before Ghirahim sliced open his rather girthy middle. Ghirahim finally took the time to take in the room around him. Likely underground, given the rough-hewn stone walls, rocky ground, and wetness in the air. Slips of spell paper and magic charms littered hastily painted red walls. What appeared to be cheap, chalky paint made a ridiculously childish, yet detailed outline of the Gate of Time on the ground beneath where Ghirahim stood. The Sheikah Master stood at the head of the summoning gate, and at his feet was a tome, unlike anything Ghirahim had seen in a long, long time.

The Goddess of Time had stayed neutral in Demise’s war of glorious destruction, which, to the Demon God, might as well of been the same as pledging her undying support to the Goddess Hylia. The pathetic creature had been nothing compared to his Master, her insistence on never raising a finger in support of either side making it all too easy to grind her into the blood and gore of the very battle fields she ignored. After Demise had left her bruised and broken and bleeding, she had turned her back on the realm of the living entirely, retreating to the Sacred Realm to her older sisters, begging the Golden Three to hide her from the big, mean demons, as if her sniveling insistence of neutrality hadn’t brought it upon herself.

Ghirahim had found the idea of the Guardian of Time quaint. A full-grown goddess couldn’t handle the heat, so she, what, brought out a subordinate to watch the world for her? Go and lick her wounds in the Sacred Realm while some other, lesser lifeform did her job for her?

It was so pathetic that it was almost adorable.

Ghirahim never met the Time Guardian, not face to face, but he had seen her across the battlefield from her place of neutral observation, had felt the sheer magic that dripped from her pink and white robes, the divine power that soaked into the ground around her, the time magic so thick that it was palpable. She had carried such a tome in her hands, but that one had been shiny and new, the gold leaf glowing and ink still wet—this one was tarnished, powerful but pox-marked by time.

Hm.

“Where am I?” Ghirahim asked, narrowing his white eyes at the Sheikah man. He had taken a seat on a massive cushion with truly hideous yellow tassels provided by the other Sheikah— foot soldier, he had called her? The foot soldier placed an equally large eyesore in front of Ghirahim, who tilted his head and raised a brow. She flitted back in an awkward almost bow, coming to a stop behind the Sheikah man. Ghirahim pointedly did not sit, and the foot soldier fingered the demon carver on her hip, discomfort leaking off of her.

“Under the abandoned Yiga Clan Hideout.” The Sheikah man said around a mouthful of ‘banana’ chips, and Ghirahim couldn’t help his ears from perking.

Yiga. He knew that word. He might not rattle off stats and translations like his other half, but Ghirahim had been forged with the same wealth of knowledge as she had been—he had to be if he was going to be of any use to his Master. What use would Demise have for an imbecile as a first lieutenant? What kind of right hand would he be if he could not keep up with the enemy, could not prove himself to be leagues above the rest? So, when the Sheikah man used the word, Ghirahim knew its translation easily.

Yiga. Could be used as a noun, verb, or adjective, first used to describe the actions of the Sheikah who turned their back on Hylia in hopes of winning Demise’s favor. Instead, Demise had gifted Ghirahim the opportunity to dispose of them as he saw fit—after all, who wanted turncoats fighting on their side?

Yiga. Noun: An act of absolute betrayal. Verb: a treasonous action. Adjective: A traitor of the worst kind. Yiga Clan—

Quite literally, a clan of betrayal.

Interesting.

“The Hero thinks he’s finally disposed of us,” The foot soldier hissed, finally finding her voice, “Soft little moron.”

“It is unwise to underestimate your opponent,” Ghirahim said. “The Sky Child is many things, but soft is not one of them.” Soft. The word felt foul on Ghirahim’s tongue. He had thought Link soft once, stupid once, and look where it got him. Once beautiful form destroyed, left to rot in the nothing with only rage and hatred to keep him company. Was that how his Master felt, sealed away in the bastard’s sword? Angry, hating? Alone?

The foot soldier scoffed, and her master lazily swatted her; she mumbled an apology and sat, kneeling beside him with a silhouette that spoke more to adoration than obedience. The question was, was this man a teacher, a leader, or a slaver?

“I had quite the welcome party planned until you went any killed my subordinates. Oh well. One must crack a few eggs to make a fried banana.”

The footsoldier nodded sagely at her master’s words, tilting her mask up barely to expose a painted mouth and dark skin, and taking a bite of the dried banana slices she’d placed before the three of them. Ghirahim glanced at the three bodies around him. Blood still oozed from one, and its guts were beginning to stink. Oops.

“This isn’t the Sealed Grounds.” He said, and the Master nodded.

“No-pe, the Sealed Grounds have long since disappeared. Unfortunately, quite some, uh, time has passed since the Hero of the Skies sealed the Great Dark One away, but with that nifty little book we’ve managed to—”

“Make time our bitch!”

“Ere!” the man hissed, and the foot soldier—Ere—folded her arms.

“We’ve got the Eyes of Ganon, and Yuga, and all sorts of monsters,” She continued, leaning forward, “and now that we’ve got you, we’re unstoppable!”

Ghirahim bristled. “You don’t ‘got’ anything.”

“I just mean--!”

“What footsoldier Ere means,” her master interrupted, “is that I have a proposition that I feel you will be very interested in.”

Ghirahim flexed his fingers and in an instant his sword was back, eye level—mask level?—with the man, who, for his credit, didn’t even flinch.

“You bore me.”

“I know where Link is.” He said, sounding far too cocky for Ghirahim’s liking, and Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. He shifted his grip on the sword. The man could be lying, stalling for what—time? He had brought Ghirahim out of the nothing, that much was clear, but Ghirahim would rather cut out his own tongue than say thank you; those words were reserved for one being and it sure as hell wasn’t the pudgy man chowing down on banana chips in front of him. Frustration welled up and Ghirahim stamped it down. It would be so easy to send the point of his blade through that perfectly painted mask, to be done with this man and his pathetic subordinate, to end this conversation that sounded far too close to someone demanding his subjugation, but…

But if the man really knew where the Sky Child was, if Ghirahim didn’t have to go through all the pesky trouble of tracking down another one of Hylia’s pawns, if he could jump straight to utterly annihilating the boy instead of a wasteful chase… well, that would be ideal.

He didn’t lower his sword, and the man leaned forward till the tip poked the red eye of his pearly white mask.

“I can take you to him. All of them.”

“All of them?”

“A lot has changed since you were sealed away. Sit. Let’s talk like civilized creatures.”

Ghirahim glanced at himself in the reflection of the blade. Black, metallic skin, streaked with white veins of crystallized mineral. Beautiful, breathtaking—but not him. This body was the Goddess’ making, back when Hylia thought him a blade she could use for herself, nothing like the skin and hair he had created with Demise’s far more tempting gift: the freedom of choice. He grinned as the feeling of illusionary magic fluttered over him, skin growing over metal, white and creamy, delicate clothing melting into place, hair curling perfectly around his face. A picture of elegance. Perfection.

The foot soldier clapped excitedly, the Master whistling in appreciation. Ghirahim flipped his hair over his ear.

“I know. Not many get to see the creation of such flawlessness,” he said, twirling the sword over the back of a gloved hand. “Such elegance, fresh and free of cost. Many have killed for such a front-row seat.”

“I’m honored.”

“I could still kill you.”

“And have no one left to speak of the beauty I just witnessed? What a shame!”

“Surely you don’t think I’m that vain, do you?”

The man cocked his head and Ghirahim was sure he was grinning under the mask. “Of course not. Eat, eat, before my subordinate eats all the banana chips.”

Finally, Ghirahim sat. Ere took another handful of chips and her master swatted her hand away.

“Excuse me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I am the Big Banana of the Yiga Clan, the head honcho, the strong, brave, burly, ( and, frankly, extremely attractive) Master Kohga. But Master Big Banana Kohga will do.”

Ghirahim snorted. “I’m not calling you that.”

“Fine. Master—”

“I have only one Master, and you are not him,” Ghirahim spat, surprisingly himself with the intensity of the words. He’d meant to sound aloof, but it was hard to be put together when Demise was the topic of discussion. Demise—the need to be beside him burned inside Ghirahim, pulling at him. If he had organs, Ghirahim was sure they would ache, but instead the metal inside him boiled with need. His creator, his Master; Demise was everything, and Link would suffer like no Hylian, no, no living creature, had ever suffered before for taking him away from Ghirahim.

“Very well. Kohga then.”

Beside him, the Sheikah—Yiga—foot soldier stiffened in horror at the thought of addressing Kohga as anything but his full title. “But Master!”

Kohga gave her what must have been a stern look behind his mask. Amazing how a masked man could be so expressive. “Not now, Ere.”

“Back to the business at hand,” Ghirahim said, “Link.”

“Link.” Kohga grit out, lifting his mask to spit on the ground, as if even saying the Sky Child’s name had been an ordeal. Disgusting. Ghirahim knew demons with better manners.

“You know where he is.”

“Where they all are.”

“The Spirit Maiden?”

“What? No, all the Links.”

Ghirahim steeled his face. He’d always been emotive, even back during the Sealing Wars, and millennium upon millennium alone on the Surface had given him the freedom to express himself as he so saw fit—but he was not about to give Kohga that power over him. Kohga laughed.

“You’ve been sealed away a long, long time, Lord Ghirahim. Can I call you Ghirahim? Ghira? I’ll call you Ghira.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Anyways, Ghira, I’d tell you the year, but I doubt that would mean much to you—it’s been hundreds of decum-millennia. Thousands of hundreds maybe—the exact time of the Era of Myth has been long lost, given it is, you know, considered myth.”

He paused and stuffed a mouthful of banana chips in his mouth. Ere mirrored him, and it would have been almost… quaint if it hadn’t been a couple of filthy Sheikah, even if they were supposedly traitors. The question, of course, was traitors to whom. Hylia? The Spirit Maiden? The girl’s disgustingly devoted dog of a protector?

Link?

Ghirahim held no love for turncoats. Honorless grifters, all of them.

(As if you weren't once one, a voice that sounded far too much like Fi whispered in his ear)

“Of course, given the vast knowledge of the Yiga, the years don’t really matter all that much. The Sheikah may be a lot of useless goody-two-shoes, but they certainly are great at bookkeeping!”

Ere nodded enthusiastically.

“When the Demon Demise was sealed away, the Hero—”

“—Did a shit job!”

“Yes, thank you, Ere, did a shit job. So, along comes Ganon, Ganondorf, whatever you want to call him, Demise's successor—"

Ghirahim felt something flutter inside him that, if he had one, he would call his heart skipping a beat. His Master, free? Sure, as some ridiculously named nobody, but still his Master, brought back some way or another.

“Take me to your ‘Ganon’,” Ghirahim hissed, leaning forward deep into Kohga’s personal space. The Sheikah didn’t even flinch—obnoxious little man.

“That’s the problem, eh? We can’t.”

Ghirahim grabbed a fistful of Kohga’s red uniform and jerked him forward, a dagger melting into existence in his hand and finding its home against Kogha’s neck. Ere yelped, rushing to her master’s side, but Kogha clicked his tongue at her and she froze.

“Unacceptable. Take. Me. To. Him.”

“Can’t. Link killed him.”

“You said millennia has passed. Link would be lucky to live past 90.”

“Each time Ganon returns, so does Hyrule’s precious Hero. Link. Over and over and over—”

Ghirahim jerked him back with a snarl. Link, brought back, after all these years? Constantly revived to what, rub Demise’s defeat in his face? Disgusting, revolting, utterly barbaric—didn’t he know how to leave well enough alone?

“But we’ve got the upper hand this time!” Kohga said with triumphant fervor, patting the tome he’d kept firmly at his side so far. “This bad boy! Time travel, summoning gates, necromancy, the whole shebang! With it, we can bring back every Ganon, every Demon King, heck, maybe even Demise itself, and the Hero—”

“Can’t do jack-shit!” Ere said, leaning forward for the book, which Kohga snatched away.

“Yeah, ‘can’t ’t do jackshit’.” He said. “We’ve connected with Ganon’s followers from across the timelines—”

Timelines? Plural?

“But, you know how the Gods are, all buddy-buddy with Their precious golden Hero, so They’ve gone and tried to beat us to the punch. Lined up a whole basket full of them.”

Ghirahim held up a hand. “Link—you’re telling me there’s more than one Hero?”

“Duh,” Kohga said. Ghirahim’s jaw twitched. “I think we’re up to twelve?”

Ere nodded. “Twelve.”

Twelve… Link had been a thorn in his side, and that had just been one of him. Twelve? Never let it be said that Hylia did things in halves, he supposed. But Ghirahim had managed to resurrect Demise all by himself. He could handle more than more brat, surely.

Resurrect him for approximately 9 minutes and 47 seconds, a voice that sounded far too much like his second half whispered in his mind, which is a true and complete failure. The likelihood of bringing your Master back for even a minute longer is minuscule with a second Hero by Link’s side, and the chance of besting twelve alone is too low to compute.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. Was the little blue bitch still up and kicking with the other Links? Twelve… The Yiga leader was stupid, that much was clear. But they had mentioned allies, and Ghirahim, as much as he loathed to admit it, needed that.

“So. You summoned me to lead your armies?”

Ghirahim could feel Kohga’s eyeroll behind his mask and bristled at the man’s snort.

“No-pe, the Big Banana answers to nobody but Great Mr. Darkness Himself. Vaati, Yuga, the Eyes of Ganon, we’ve been divvying up forces, attacking from multiple timelines, keeping the group too splintered to move forward. You’ll join, of course, and be at my right hand and we’ll rip those little brats limb from limb. Ere has done a fantastic job outlining the timelines—thank you dear—”

The Yiga footsoldier preened under her master’s acknowledgment. “I’m good with numbers!”

“She’s good with numbers.” Kohga echoed with a nod. “Anyways, what I’m saying is you have the honor of being the number one lackey to the Big Banana himself while we rip apart the Heroes and bring the Big Boss—es— back from the dead! And of course, once we do and I’m rewarded for my bravery, I’ll see that you’re congratulated as well. I’m sure we can get you a prize. Maybe a town to play with—do you enjoy politics, Ghira? You seem the type. Maybe a—”

Kohga cut off with a gulp as Ghirahim’s hand wrapped around his thick neck. He dragged the Yiga closer till his beautifully curved nose was pressing against the smooth wood of the man’s mask. His hands may be softer in this form, cushioned with flesh, but the steel was still there under the false skin and stale blood, and Kohga’s neck creaked in his grasp. Kohga wheezed, one hand coming up to paw at Ghirahim’s iron grip.

“I am no one’s ‘second hand’, no one’s subservient, and sure as hell no one’s lackey,” He spat, “except to my Master and you, 'Mister Banana' are far from the terror and brilliance of Demise. You are a pot-bellied, self-absorbed idiot messing which magic he does not understand in the slightest—”

Kohga let out a full bodied wheeze, and Ghirahim realized with no short of furious confusion that the man was trying to laugh. The spirit’s mouth twisted into a snarl, and he grabbed hold of the strap holding Kohga’s mask—he wanted to see the man’s bulging eyes lose their light personally.

Kohga raised his hand, fingers splayed—was the man going to, what, slap him? One last stand that was just as laughable as he was?

Kohga made a fist, and Ghirahim realized it was a signal. Suddenly, the air grew thick, thick with magic, electric and bitter, like biting into the ozone. Ere yelled a word of Power and a wall of blue light formed in the sliver of space between Ghirahim and her master, and in a split second, it expanded, throwing Ghirahim back with a BANG and shaking the room, spell paper raining down like snowflakes. The light wall pressed down on him, pinning him flat against the wall, reeking of time magic, and Ere stood beside her master, arm outstretched and tome in hand. Her hand shook with the effort of the spell, but she radiated determination, and the spell book in her hand glowed with the signature blue light of divine magic.

“Now then,” Kohga said, rolling his neck, “I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to do it this way.”

The Yiga stood, and despite his short stature he suddenly seemed nine feet tall. He put his fists on his hips and cocked his head.

“I need a right hand. You are far more qualified than the painter or the tiny rat magician will ever be, and the Eyes of Ganon are practically all brainless monsters. I need someone intelligent. Dangerous. Capable. And you are going to be that. I didn’t go through all that effort of a resurrection spell to let you slip through my fingers, got that, Ghira?”

Ghirahim bared his fangs at him, and the man had the audacity to laugh.

“Very scary,” he said, nasally voice suddenly low and dark, and in that moment Ghirahim finally saw the master of a clan of traitors. “I’ve got it from here, sweet cheeks.” He said over his shoulder to Ere. “Go ready our guest’s room.”

“Upstairs or downstairs?”

“Depends on how he behaves. He can have the upstairs bed, or we’ll find him a nice, wet, dark spot in the mines. I’m sure for a demon, the Depths will feel just like home.”

“You’ve got some nerve—” Ghirahim hissed, and Kohga cocked his head, clearly rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shut up won’t you?” He took the tome from Ere and lazily flipped through the pages. He’d doggy ears the pages without a care and one he had turned with so little care that the page ripped. Ghirahim might hold no love for the Goddess of Time, but the tome was still a part of her divinity and should be treated as such.

The wall of light dispersed reforming into ribbons of glowing cyan as heavy as an ocean that clung tightly to Ghirahim. The pressure of light off of his nonexistent lungs was a blessing, replaced by bonds of a new kind. Ghirahim refused to struggle with the shackles in front of Kohga; he wasn’t going to look any weaker than he already did.

He could feel Kohga grin under his mask, and Ere offered an eager hand for a high five, which Kohga provided.

“So, tell me, Ghira, what’s it going to be? A nice bed upstairs and some fried bananas or shall I drop you down the Yiga Hideout Chasm to think some more?”

Ghirahim gave himself a moment to feel his anger, a moment for fury. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, taking in every shaking, raging emotion pounding in his metal chest before opening them and smiling. It was bright, dripping with cocky bravado, and he flicked his hair out of his eyes.

“So, you aren’t as useless as you seem,” He said pleasantly and Kohga puffed out his chest.

“Of course not. I’m not called the Big Banana for nothing!”

“Of course. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. The years have left me jaded, I’m afraid.”

Kohga grabbed hold of Ghirahim’s bicep and pulled him to his feet.

“Shall we discuss the details of our arrangement over dinner?” Ghirahim said, all teeth and sweetness, “It has been a while since I’ve eaten, after all, and I’ve never had a—what did you call it? A banana? Before.”

Kohga slapped his back. “I knew you would see reason.”

Ghirahim grinned. In his mind’s eye, he was smashing Kohga’s head into the wall, slamming it over and over till the skull caved and Ghirahim’s elegant hands were red and pink and grey with brain matter. Instead, he shook out his hair and held himself tall, spine and shoulders loose and free of rage.

“Now, please, let us talk as friends.”

“I’d like that.”

By the door, Ere watched the two of them. Ghirahim’s eye settled on the girl’s mask, and she straightened. She flinched when his tongue snaked its way across his top lip.

“Master—”

“Not now, footsoldier, the adults are talking.”

Ere huffed and stomped out of the door, fists curled. Kohga clipped the tome to his belt.

Ghirahim liked lists, like ticking things off them. It made him feel productive, successful. In his brain he began his new list: get the tome. Kill Kohga. Then mutilate Link, his Link, and feed him to his own precious Zelda.

Then, bring his Master home.

Easy peasy.

---

A banana, it seemed, wasn’t actually a crunchy chip, but instead, a fruit that hadn’t existed back when Hylia first walked the earth, likely evolved from, if Ghirahim was to guess, something like a musa acuminata. Long and yellow, it resembled the musa’s short, stubby green curve and while it was softer and sweeter, with little to no seeds, Ghirahim could see the appeal. He’d never enjoyed eating—his Master hadn’t needed to, so Ghirahim didn’t, even if he technically could. The act made him feel too human, too mundane, nothing like the immortal opulence that came with being a sword spirit, regretfully forged by Hylia’s hand but recreated with grander splendor by Demise’s, so he made a point to never depend on food. After all, a sword was cared for best by the hands of its wilder, polished and prized best by the hands that reforged it and held it in battle—that was what Ghirahim needed, not some mushy fruit. But Ghirahim cut small bites of a battered, deep-fried, painfully mushy banana, face open and pleasant, and pretended to be engrossed in the story Kohga was telling.

Ghirahim was unsure if carving the man up with his sword would be more satisfying, or if he should beat the life out of him. Either way, it would be with the mask off. He wanted to see the fear in Kohga’s eyes, the blood bubble past his lips, the skin lose its warmth and pallor as his heart stopped. He wanted to feel Kohga’s pulse go still.

Ghirahim smiled and took another bite, fighting back a shudder at the revolting texture. The table was very low and filled with Yiga in red and white sitting on mats and cushions on the floor, as well as strange bat like creates in black hoods—the Eyes of Ganon—and two men, one tall, one short.

The tall one was covered in makeup, chalky pale face cream with bright red lip stain and dramatic eye powder, and his thick red ringlets were pulled back so tightly that his hairline had started to fade. His robes were elegant and brilliantly colored, and he looked at Ghirahim with suspicious disdain. Across from him, the smaller one was barely taller than a child, with chubby cheeks and long lilac hair. A scar cut across his face, and his robes were dark violet and purple, pulled tightly around him.

Both men reeked of magic, though distinctly different types—the tall one’s was old, otherworldly, bizarrely out of place, while the small’s magic smelled fresh and forest-like, a sweetness that didn’t match his scowl.

Yuga and Vaati, two sorcerers from two times, each with no love for their respective heroes and a determination to resurrect Ganon, though be it for power or revenge, Ghirahim didn’t know. Zant, Ghirahim had been informed, whoever the fuck that was, would be joining them soon, once he finished letting loose his stupid ‘shadow beasts’ to catch the scent of the hero—hero-es—Kohga was going to have them all track down.

Ghirahim’s new allies. Ghirahim would have scoffed if he could. He detested the idea of buddying up to anyone, but 12 heroes were too much even for the Demon Lord. At least the Eyes of Ganon looked like simpletons—monsters were never intelligent enough to hold their own opinions, making them easy to manipulate.

Vaati took a long sip from the cup in front of him. He hadn’t touched the meat that had been put on his plate, looking at it with near revulsion and dumping it to the side, instead digging into the fruits provided. A vegetarian. Ghirahim slotted the information away as something that might be useful in the future. The man clearly wasn’t human, but what he was Ghirahim wasn’t sure. He smelled of nature, of a clean, pure magic tainted by something distinctly powerful but not necessarily evil. Yuga felt human enough, though not Hylian, or Sheikah, so instead somehow something different. His magic felt almost Hylian, but twisted, shifted too far to the left to be quite right. He raised a hideous red eyebrow at Ghirahim’s lingering gaze, and Ghirahim smiled, all bright teeth and false enthusiasm.

Disgusting.

“So, Lord Ghirahim,” Yuga said “I’m sure you’ve been delighted to be returned to mortal form. The Big Banana has told us much about a sentient sword spirit. It seems the world grows stranger and stranger these days.”

Ghirahim bit back a scoff. ‘Mortal form’—there was nothing mortal about the beautiful glamour that made his body, nor the deadly metal underneath it. He would always be worlds about the bloody and beating hearts of the mortal men around him.

“Strange indeed, Yuga. I’m told you come from a world with your own Link?”

Yuga’s face darkened. “Yes. A filthy, hideous worm of a thing. Though, if Master Kohga is to be believed, you know more of Links than the rest of us.”

“The enemy of the first ever Link,” Vaati said. “Truly a feat there.”

“Don’t downplay yourself,” Ghirahim said amicably, and Kohga nodded.

“Ghira’s right—we all bare the scars of Hylia’s chosen brats, and we’ll all return them tenfold!”

“Here here!” Kohga’s little brat of a footsoldier called, raising her cup in a toast before lifting the corner of her mask and downing the ale.

Then the lights went out. Only for a moment, the oil lamps losing their flame before flickering back in full force, but in that time the air was dark, the air pressure became oppressive, heavy, like someone was baring down on Ghirahim’s shoulders. A whine broke through the air, then a strange cracking sound, like broken glass or a ruptured heart valve, and the light was back. Standing behind Yuga was a towering creature, eyes wide and fish-like, teeth needle-sharp, pallor unlike anything Ghirahim had seen. His clothes were ornate, ill fitting, though that might have been purposeful, and the darkness that radiated off the man smelled heavenly.

True darkness, not like the petty magic of Yuga or the nature-esc power of Vaati. Nighttime in a cup, doused over the man, creature, whatever’s head.

“Ah, Zant,” Kohga yawned, stretching. “I take it your trip went well.”

Was he shackled too? This man, this monster, dripping in power—did Kohga have him on a chain as well? Or had he allowed himself to be subjugated like those two idiots?

“They were out of sight,” It, he? Zant? Rasped. “The Time Guardian took them from this plane. But they have returned.”

“Good, good.” Kohga said, running his fingers down the tome at his side. “Though, if they are moving so far from even your shadow beasts’ reach—well, then we must move faster.”

Yuga scoffed. “Let them get complacent. Let them get comfortable, lazy.”

Kohga’s eyes narrowed behind the mask; Ghirahim wasn’t sure how he could tell, but he did. “Did I ask for your opinion, Yuga? No, I don’t believe I did.”

“Good help,” Vaati said with a snort, “so hard to find these days.”

Crack

Kohga watched, almost bored, and the blade master smacked the side of Vaati’s small head hard with the hilt of his wind-cleaver. Ghirahim, were he another, weaker person, would have been concerned to see someone so tiny hit with such force. Ghirahim was not another, weaker person. He watched with lazy eyes, bringing his cup to his mouth to hide a smirk. ‘Good help’ indeed.

“You.” Zant hissed, thought Ghirahim thought that might just be his voice, “You’re new.”

“Our resident Demon Lord.” Kohga said, “his skills are impressive, his repertoire and reputation exquisite. He shall be a fine addition to the party.”

Zant was silent. He was massive, though Ghirahim wasn’t sure if it was his actual size or just his presence. Taller than the Sky Child, that was for sure. Did he have a Link of his own?

Ghirahim had always scoffed at the thought of allies, but-- but Ghirahim needed help, and this shadow creature looked far more useful than a bat monster or little flower child or haughty magician. This, this creature spoke of power, real power. Useful power. Power that Ghirahim could control, just given the time. And it seemed, with the rest of these idiots beside him, that he had plenty of time.

---

The desert of the Gerudo was different than the deserts of Lanayru. It stretched for miles, as far as the eye could see, with mighty cliffs decorated with Sheikah—no, Yiga—emblems. Ghirahim breathed in the night air. It was dusty and dry, and carried a chill, the heat of the day long gone. Kohga had said his own Hero had decimated the Yiga Hideout not too long ago, leaving them hiding underneath, in a cave system that led to the ‘Depths’ that Kohga enjoyed using as a threat so much. The little one, Vaati, seemed truly terrified of them, though he tried to hide his flinches at every mention of it. It was unsurprising. The man radiated earth and forest magics, bright and unwavering under the dark cap he bore. Regardless of what magics he claimed to fight with, what dark creatures he claimed to serve, under it all he was truly just some kind of frolicking forest creature. Though which kind, Ghirahim was unsure. The world had changed so much since he had been defeated—he wasn’t sure he even knew the name of the creature that Vaati was, deep under all that dark magic.

There was a looming presence behind him, silent but oppressive, and Ghirahim smirked. “Has anyone ever told you that you would make a fantastic primadona? Quite the stage presence.”

Behind him, Zant was silent. Ghirahim looked over his shoulder, his smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Come to join me?”

“You’re not like the others,” Zant said in that horridly raspy voice of his, and Ghirahim cocked his head.

“Oh?”

“They are weak. Mortal. Breakable.”

“And you are not?”

“I am the chosen of my God. They are beneath me.”

“God, ey? Then I suppose we are on more even footing that those… creatures.”

Zant said nothing, and Ghirahim didn’t bother to hide it when he rolled his eyes. He leaned backwards, resting his weight on his palms.

“The Yiga man says you are the first of us.” Zant said finally. His voice was like broken fingernails across sandpaper. “The one who raised a sword to the first Link. The first failure.”

“Need I remind you that had you not also failed, you would not be where you stand?” Ghirahim said, forcing the grit from his teeth and aggression from his voice. The creature could be of use, an ally made of stronger stuff than the weird woodland creature or the magician, one who he could model and shape into what Ghirahim needed to succeed, then dispose of at will. An ally, however brief and easily manipulated.

“My God will forgive my failures when I resurrect him and bring him the Hylian’s head.”

“And you plan to wait beside the Yiga for their permission to do so?”

Zant cocked his head. “And you do not?”

“No. No, I do not. I don’t need them to bring my Master back.”

“You think you can fight twelve heroes?” Zant said with a gravely strange noise that might have been a laugh. It was the closest to emotion Ghirahim had heard from him. “You could not even fight one.”

“Neither could you.”

Zant made a face that Ghirahim thought was supposed to be a frown.

“Then what is it you suppose?”

“We play along, for now, let Kohga have his fun. Then, when his guard is down, we take the tome for ourselves. Forget this ‘clan’ and their plans, simply rip the throats out of the heroes ourselves.”

“…We?”

Ghirahim patted the spot beside him. Zant lumbered over, needle like teeth over his bottom lip. The creature was ungainly, ungraceful, more a bolder than a man—creature, whatever-- but there was a secret flexibility to his step. Ghirahim suddenly wanted to see the thing fight, to observe and annotate how someone so large could hide such… contortion.

“So, this god of yours,” He said, and Zant’s face, to the best of Ghirahim‘s ability to read it, shuttered shut. “Is he the same Ganon as the rest?”

“He is above any pig beast or ‘demon’,” Zant said. His face had opened with surprising speed, his slitted, reptilian eyes bright—or as bright as a shadow could be. “His power is like no other. He brings with him the promise of a world righted in balance, with the small taking the power of the many. He gives and takes away. He is all-powerful, all-consuming, and he carried with him the promise of greatness.”

All powerful. All consuming. Carries with him the promise of greatness. Hm. Ghirahim could feel the start of a smile pulling on his lips. The awe, the devotion that clung to Zant’s words were familiar in their dedication. Did Ghirahim not know such a feeling, the complete devotion to another? The beauty to be found in ultimate power, the pleasure in all consuming majesty. The promise of a place at the feet of the greatest ruler the Surface had ever seen, the near ecstasy in seeing the planet’s ravishment at your own hand, a sword guided by the mightiest creature to have ever walked the earth… Demise was intoxicating, and his power was mesmerizing, and his might made him all too worthy to be worshiped like the Demon God he was.

If Zant’s half baked Ganon-whatever was even a thimbleful of the god Demise was then, well, maybe resurrection wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe, the Yiga idiot’s plan had some merit. Regardless, Ghirahim knew what he planned to do, once he beheaded Kohga and took the tome. Eradicate his Link, and every one since, raise his Master and then, together, the two of them would obliterate this flawed timeline and remake it in their own image. Gone with Hylia’s lingering influence, with Links and heroes and spirit maidens. He was sure that Zant’s Ganon could be useful in achieving that, at least temporarily.

Zant and Kohga both spoke of the man (men? Creatures? Pigs?) in very different ways, the first with filthy reverence and the second with something almost unreadable, the meaning behind the flattering, adoring words hidden behind his white wooden mask.

Kohga, Ghirahim knew, must be a very good liar. A nasally, rude, self centered, and pathetically vain ass of a man, but a good liar. Who knew what hid behind that mask, what simmered in the man’s eyes as he spoke and planned and plotted.

Ghirahim was going to be sure the Yiga’s mask was off when Ghirahim ran him through. He wanted to see the man’s face, wanted to know if it was the same warm brown as Impa, his eyes the same piercing blood red.

Impa. The rage that built in his throat at the thought of Hylia's and the Spirit Maiden’s pitbull was a tightly tangled knot that he struggled to swallow. The Sheikah woman would be long dead by now. Probably lived a long life getting happy and fat while reveling in Demise’s defeat.

Bitch.

“Kohga spoke of ‘shadow beasts.’” Ghirahim said instead of dwelling further on the attack dog. “Explain.”

Zant snorted. “Watch yourself, spirit.”

“Explain. Please.” Ghirahim corrected, sarcasm thick in his drawl.

“When I was slaughtered without care by the Hero’s… companion, most of my minions fled or returned to their lesser, weaker forms. With my revival, I have begun…. Recollecting. Shadow beasts are the remnants of traitorous Twili, transformed into far more obedient beings. They are strong, cunning, and ideal trackers.”

“Twili?”

Zant cocked his head. “You really are the first of us, aren’t you?” He said, the softness of the words coming out as a hiss. “The kingdom of Hyrule, the Light Realm, Ganondorf—you know none of my own history. When Yuga speaks of Lorule, your eyes are dark, blank with understanding. You don’t smell the minish cap amongst us.”

“And you know so much of me?”

“No.” Zant said, cocking his head as if he hadn’t considered the reverse. “I know none.”

Ghirahim twisted to face him more, plastering on a grin. Ugh.

“Then, let’s learn,” Ghirahim said. Zant’s nonexistent nostrils flared. “After all, if we’re going to be friends shouldn’t we know more about each other?”

“Friends?”

Ghirahim’s jaw twinged from the size of the smile he forced, curling his lips over his sharp teeth to seem less threatening. “Why not? You, me, your God—we’ll see to it than no Link crosses this world alive ever again. As friends.”

---

Kogha’s fingers drummed on the table, a staccato beat that spoke of a remembered tune and not just anxious fidgeting. Zant had just finished his brooding explanation of what his shadow beasts—hulking, tentacle-esc monsters with inky skin and strange masks that filled the war room with a shuddering chill and occasional shrieks, leaving everyone but Zant, Ghirahim, and the Big Banana himself shivering—has tracked, not unlike some kind of Twili hunting hound. Because that’s what they were, what they had been: Twili. It felt good to put a name to whatever race of shadow that Zant was, and Ghirahim had mourned just how bland and empty the new, underground Yiga Hideout was, without a single book or scroll he could pour over to get some idea of what Twili even exactly meant. It was becoming increasingly clear that Ghirahim knew so much less of the world than those around him, especially the Yiga, who seemed to be the furthest in the timeline, whatever the ‘timeline’ even looked like. Those answers, the ones surrounding the movement of time and history could be found best in the Guardian of Time—Celia? Seriara? Cia? Whatever her name was?—‘s tome.

The massive book taunted Ghirahim with its magic. Demise, when he resurrected him, would be ecstatic to have such a piece of magic gifted to him. Ghirahim just needed to actually get his hands on it first.

“They’re moving between time faster than we thought.” One of the hooded creatures, the leader of the Eyes of Ganon, rasped, and Kohga hmmed in acknowledgment.

“And you’re positive they are in this Hyrule, as we speak?” He said to Zant.

“My beasts are never wrong.”

“So you say,” Yuga said, dapping his rouged cheeks with a handkerchief with painstaking care. Zant narrowed his strange, otherworldly eyes. One of the shadow beasts that had taken to stalking around the room slunk behind Yuga, silent but impossibly fast, sticking its head over Yuga’s shoulder and growling. Yuga yelped, smearing rouge against the Twili beast’s mask, and Vaati snickered.

“Then we send out a hunting party,” Ghirahim said. He leaned back in his chair. This was pointless, all of it. They could easily teleport to where the heroes were and gut them; this whole ‘planning sesh’ was stupid. Demise never needed war councils like Kohga did. He simply swung Ghirahim and split as much blood as they could before dominating everything. Still, Kohga seemed to hold his spot at the head of the table like a leash on the people around him, the tome in his hand serving as the collar’s key. It made Ghirahim’s blood boil.

If Ghirahim let himself be honest, Kohga’s cockiness did more than incense him. It made him almost lonely.

He missed his Master. He missed his Master, his sharp tongue and hot touch and the vile, violent love that he reserved for Ghirahim and Ghirahim alone. Demise had liberated him from Hylia’s touch, shown him the light, so to speak, and still, Ghirahim had failed him at every turn. It was unacceptable. The knowledge of his ineptness stung, but not as much as Demise’s absence. Ghirahim wanted him by his side, needed to stand at his right hand. And if that tome was the way to get it, well, then Kohga would regret ever holding it above Ghirahim.

One thing at a time. First, the Sky Child and the Spirit Maiden. Then, the rest of the Links. Then, Kohga.

Then… then, returning his Master to his rightful place of power and control.

“A hunting party—fantastic! Ere will lead an exploratory assault--“

“Exploratory?” Ghirahim said, narrowing his eyes. “We know where they are. We get to gutting and decapitating now, and then we’re done with the lot by lunchtime tomorrow!”

The leader of the ugly Ganon Eye things shook its head rapidly, its cloak hood flopping around its glowing eyes. “Alive. We need ours alive. His blood must be fresh.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes. “Alright. We kill the rest and let yours alive to wallow in misery.”

Kohga straightened as Vaati leaned forward. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the bloodthirsty stuff, but the Eyes gotta point. There are more than just the Links at play. The Guardian of Time is meddling, meaning the Goddess of Time is on their side. If she is leaving behind her neutrality—”

“The Goddess of Time is a coward and a bitch,” Ghirahim drawled, and Vaati frowned.

“The Old Gods—”

“Are useless. My Master can, and will gladly, annihilate them once I—we—resurrect him.”

“When. As in later. He isn’t here, Ghirahim,meaning we cannot be dependent on him. Some dead, failure of a god—"

Ghirahim was up in an instant, grabbing Vaati by the clasp of his purple cloak.

“Watch your words, rat—”

“Make me,” Vaati hissed, “Your disrespect for the Divine will do nothing but hurt you. Do you think Link is our only enemy? If one Goddess is willing to intervene, why not all? Hylia? The Golden Three? And need I remind you that Link is merely one half of a pair? His princess is out there, one for each Link, and they are more powerful than you can imagine. The Light Force, the Life Force, the Triforce, whatever you want to call it, it is power in its most complete, inherent form. If you go against a Zelda, you will not survive!”

Ghirahim pulled his closer, nose to nose.

“I killed one, once. Fed her soul to my Master. I can do it again with my eyes closed.”

“Again, with Demise! For fuck’s sake, Ghirahim—”

“Boys, boys,” Kohga drawled. He waved a hand and a blade master untangled Vaati from Ghirahim’s hand, dumping the little man onto the ground with and ‘oof!’ and a puff of dust. “Ghirahim, if you need bloodshed so badly, you and Yuga can take to the ground with some Yiga—Ere?”

“At your service, Master Kohga!”

“Ensure that they play nice. We need information, to see what we’re up against, not to go all massacre-y.”

“Yup!”

Kohga patted his underling on the head, and she preened brightly under the attention. Ugh. Disgusting.

Kohga suddenly turned his attention to Ghirahim.

“This is not a massacre. Blood may be spilled—encouraged! —but I am not sending you out with the intent of you coming home with a dead body. Are we understanding one another?”

Ghirahim grit his teeth and allowed himself two seconds to fume. He was not a child. He was the right hand to the Demon God, the Great Demise himself. He would not be patronized by some idiot in a mask that had fruit for hanging off his ears! Then he smiled, all soft edges and sweetness, and nodded.

“Of course, Kohga. I cross my heart, I will not decapitate anyone.”

Kohga seemed to study him behind his mask, but finally leaned back in his chair, dumping his feet on the table.

“Then we’re understood?”

Ghirahim nodded, his smile widening. “Perfectly.”

---

Ghirahim watched the group from the pocked dimension that Yuga was so fond of. A hideous, pale likeness of his beauty sat painted across the wall of the outside of Slate—Ghirahim thought it was Slate, the whole name thing was proving to be far too confusing—‘s strange boxy town. Tarice Town? Terry Town? Something with a T. Ghirahim knew he likely should be paying more attention, but the bubbling excitement in his chest made it hard to concentrate. Because there, there Link was, surrounded by friends with Fi on his back, Ghirahim’s false partner well cared for under Link’s callused hands.

There were indeed twelve of them. Kohga’s Link, Slate or whatever, was short, his long hair messy and his sword arm a strange, glowing prosthetic that reminded Ghirahim of both the elegancy of the Sheikah’s time stones and the regal power of the Zonai’s creations. Walking beside him with a skip in their step was a colorfully dressed youngster, brown face dappled with vitiligo, and on the other side, a sunburned thing with a prosthetic leg and bleached hair long since damaged beyond repair by sun and sea. Wrapped tight in a cape was a girl with pink hair and a button nose, holding hands with a wallflower of a thing, the both of them watching an elegantly dressed young man speak with animated movements. Yuga growled at the sight of him. Ah, Yuga’s Link.

There was a child in some kind of uniform, goggles on her head and a bandana at her throat, and lagging behind, a tiny twig of a thing missing an eye. And finally, three men in front led the group, talking with a quiet seriousness: a soldier with a scarf as blue as his eyes, a man who smelled as strongly of dog as he did dark magic, and a man with a child in a blacksmith’s leathers on his shoulders.

Link.

Ghirahim’s heart lept at the sight of him. The Sky Child looked different. He’d aged elegantly, his lanky frame filling out into something soft and fat but still strong, his dumb, dopey eyes bright as he spoke to the two men around him. He didn’t wear his green tunic, instead dressed in silly combinations of layers and colors. Lichtenberg scars ran up his sword arm, across under his tunic, and up onto his neck and jaw, and the sight of them made Ghirahim smile. That must be his Master’s handiwork.

He hoped it still hurt, even all these years later. He hoped it was excruciating, and that every moment left awake, Link was miserable. He hoped the man lost sleep over it, scar burning even worse when thunderstorms lit up the Surface.

Yuga slunked out of the painting on the wall without a sound, just a flicker of rainbow color, and took a moment to dab at his face makeup with the pads of his fingertips—his vanity was obnoxious. Ghirahim would be the first to admit that he took a vocal pride in his own self-made skin but he didn’t cover his beauty in smelly, greasy paints and powders while too nervous that his complexion wasn’t grand enough to stand on its own. Ghirahim knew he was beautiful, knew he was stunning, and knew he didn’t need powder to secure that rightful pride. Besides, Ghirahim’s body was a work of art, self-formed and self-designed, a glamour created by his own hand, birthed from his own imagination and depth of creativity, instead of an obsessive attempt to perfect the flaws that Yuga undoubtfully carried, even with all that shit on his face.

“Lana wouldn’t send us in circles for no reason,” Blue scarf signed, and the other two older Link’s frowned. The child, clearly the youngest of the Link’s, pulled at Link’s hair, braiding the curly strands. “I promise, as flaky as she may seem, she is the Guardian of Time, and damn good at her job.”

“Mask doesn’t seem to have the same faith.” The dark one said with a raised brow, and Scarfy frowned.

“Mask is a deeply petty person.”

Dark one snorted. “I can see that.”

“Have you talked to him since…” Link glanced over his shoulder to the second smallest of the group, the one skulking in the back with the missing eye and colorful scars. “Since the last, uh, ‘time trip?”

Scarfy furrowed his perfect brows, signing something, but Ghirahim didn’t catch it.

Link had spoken.

Ghirahim had heard the man—a boy, then, really, just a boy, while this person in front of him was truly a man—make sounds of pain, of desperation, of rage, but never words, never syllables and phonemes, not like this Link. His voice was soft, light, gentle, and surprisingly deep, carrying a near-melodic lit to it.

Ghirahim wanted to know what it sounded like when the man was pleading for his life, begging for the pain to stop. He smiled as Yuga pulled him out of the graffiti on the wall, followed by five Yiga—three foot soldiers and two blade masters, with Ere taking the lead of the group. She was technically in charge of the six of them—seven, including her—but Ghirahim had no interest in some kid telling him what to do. Ere stretched, shaking out her hands, before rolling her neck and—melting?

Glamor flickered around her, red and spicy, with a crackle of magic and spell powder, and then in her spot was someone Ghirahim had never seen before. It wasn’t the Ere under the mask—that Ere had dark skin and thin, childlike lips while this woman before him had a full bottom lip, light brown skin flickered with freckles, and wide grey eyes. Her red-brown hair was braided on top of her head, and she wore the clothes of a traveler. Had Ghirahim not seen the transformation himself, he would never had connected the two.

Ere spun, dipping into a bow, and the Yiga clapped, only to be quickly shushed by Yuga. Ere rolled her eyes.

“Watch the master in action.”

She shrunk into something pathetic and sniveling in an instant. Soon, she was ducking around the wall that had hid them, stumbling into the group of Link’s, tears running down her cheeks.

“Sir!” She squeaked, rushing to Scarfy’s side and grabbing his arm. “Please, I need help—my friend, we, we were racing just over the land bridge and her horse stumbled and fell on top of her and I’m not strong enough to move it and please, please your friends look strong, please—”

Scarfy nodded, giving Ere a soft, reassuring smile. “Of course we’ll help,” He signed, before turning to Dark. “Let the others know that—”

Behind them, Slate turned from where he was laughing with the teen missing a leg, curious as to why they had stopped moving. His eyes went wide as he saw Ere and Scarfy talking, the color draining from his scarred face. He shoved Peg Leg to the side, bolting towards Scarfy and Ere, but it was too little too late. One moment Ere was wiping grateful crocodile tears, and the next a demon carver was in his gut.

The chainmail under the man’s tunic kept him from being completely kabobbed, but only just, with the barbs in the massive blade crushing bone and mail alike, five spots of blood growing under each spike. The child on Link’s shoulders squealed, tumbling off Link’s back, and to his credit, Scarfy only stumbled back. Soldier indeed. He drew his sword, each movement darkening his tunic more, but his face was grave and determined. Dark and Link stepped in front of him, Dark’s back country sword as simple as the Master Sword was elegant.

It took no time for the other Links to slide down into varying stances, each armed—not a surprise, those Ghirahim hadn’t expected such variety in terms of blades. One, the cloaked girl with her bubblegum hair, didn’t wield a blade at all, relying instead on a Cane of Byrna. Huh. Ghirahim had thought that artifacts had been lost to time.

The remaining five Yiga took no time slipping into their own formation, which Ghirahim supposed made sense. They had dealt with Slate for years and knew the terrain the best. The instruction that Kohga had given was for Ghirahim and Yuga to follow the Yiga’s lead, especially Ere’s, but Ghirahim had no plan to. He took orders from one person, and one person only, and that person certainly wasn’t some Yiga girl.

Yuga vanished into the ground, slipping unnoticed through the grass and rock before popping up in the middle of the Link’s, spinning with his scepter and catching Slate in the gut. The teen went flying, straight into Rainbow, who let out a desperate cry as his sword—a distinctly magical thing—went skittering, right up to Ghirahim.

“Hm.” Ghirahim said, stepping on the blade. A shiver of magic ran up his leg. “This is quite the bit of illusion magic you’ve got there. Fun.”

Link spun. His eyes were wide, bulging in his skull, and his jaw was lax, terror written clear and clean across the flesh of his face. Ghriahim grinned.

“You’ve made friends, Sky Child. How quaint.”

Around Ghirahim and Link, metal clanged. A blade master had Peg Leg occupied, too busy protecting the disarmed Rainbow to keep an eye on his own six. Ere weaved with Slate, who had finally made his way to the front, cackling as her demon carver swung. There was a shout of glee as a foot solider’s arrow hit true into someone's side, and a grunt from Bubblegum and the mousy one as they were circled, surrounded. Yuga ripped into his own Link with as much as magic as his newly resurrected body could manage, sending anyone trying to help the man scrambling out of the way of the transformation magic. Dark had vanished, One Eye at Scarfy’s side, pressing down on his quickeningly darkening gut.

The chaos was a thing of beauty. Ghirahim had missed battlefields he realized as he breathed it all in. Blood, sweat, terror. It was intoxicating.

Link stood before him, thoughts clearly running wild behind his bright, terrified eyes.

“You’re dead,” He breathed. “I killed the both of you.”

Ghriahim grinned. “You did shit job, fortunately.”

Link charged with a sharp, furious sound, swinging Fi wide and hard, and Ghirahim dashed out of the way of the cut in a rain of diamonds, appearing behind Link, who spun, swiping down.

“You’re slow. Out of practice. When’s the last time you’ve wielded her weight?”

“Shut up.”

“Did you really think you could go again, after all these years, old man?”

“Shut up!”

If there was one thing Link was, it was tenacious. He chased each blow, each slice, with another, refusing to pause even for a moment. But Link was Hylian, with mortal lungs and muscles and heart, unlike Ghirahim’s metal chest. While Ghirahim could technically tire, could bleed, could be hurt, his body was made of far greater stuff than Link’s. Link was flagging, slowing, and Ghirahim, of course, was not.

There was a flicker of diamond in the air, as Ghirahim and the obsidian blade in his hand wove in and out of Link’s own swings with ease. Fi sang with hate and desperation when her blade met his own, and her distress each time Ghirahim landed a blow was intoxicating.

Link stumbled back, chest heaving, sword arm red and flowing, and Ghirahim couldn’t hold back a giggle.

“Retreat,” A heavy Sheikah—Yiga—accent breathed in his ear. Ere’s breath tickled as she flipped her demon carver around the back of her hand.

Someone across the battlefield, Slate, lay face down, still. Ere seemed to vibrate with glee at the sight of the red leaking from him.

“We have more than enough info to go off of. Let’s go, while we still have the upper hand.”

Ghirahim glanced around the battlefield, at the gore painting the grass. Upper hand indeed. But Ghirahim didn’t care about that. He wasn’t here to cut up the Links a bit. He was here to exterminate them, annihilate them, starting with his own.

“No,” he grit out, and Ere spluttered.

“No?”

“Take the painter and your lackeys. I know what I’m doing.”

“Ghira!”

Link righted himself, spurred on by their conversation, mouth twisted into a snarl. He charged, and Ghirahim ducked under his exposed right arm—sloppy, sloppy, so sloppy—and his blade sank in between Link’s ribs like a hot knife through warm butter.

Link’s eyes bulged.

“Sky!”

Someone was yelling-- Rainbow, who charged forward regardless of his missing sword, slamming into Ghirahim’s side. The kid was surprisingly strong, but Ghirahim was made of metal. He didn’t sway to children. Ghirahim batted Rainbow aside, turning back to Link. Slowly, he drew his blade free from Link’s ribcage, marveling at the wet squelch. Still, Link, swaying but determined, attempted to hold up Fi. His hand shook, red and slick, and Ghirahim laughed.

“Fall back, Ghira—” Ere shouted, rounding up her men, but Ghirahim waved her off.

“I had expected better,” He nearly sang as Link wheezed, lips bloody. “I’m disappointed.”

Somehow, somehow, Link managed to swing the Master Sword; the movement was weak, pathetically so, and it was easy to bat the sword to the side, sending it clattering to the stone below. Link was close enough to touch—Ghirahim grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him close against his chest. The touch, the heat, the smell of his blood was intoxicating.

“Let him go.” Rainbow wheezed, pulling himself to his feet, and Ghirahim’s blade found Link’s throat.

“Ghira, that is enough!” Ere was talking, her blade masters beginning to circle him, but Ghirahim couldn’t care less. “We had our orders!”

Link’s breath hitched as pin pricks of blood dripped down his neck.

“Tell me, boy,” Ghriahim purred as Rainbow looked up at him with panic in his eyes. “Have you ever seen a decapitation? Heard someone drowning in their own blood? The trick is to cut through slowly, avoiding the brain stem as you do so. You want them aware enough to feel it, after all.”

Rainbow swallowed, eyes wide as saucers.

“You don’t have to do this—” He started, taking a slow step forward.

Ghirahim made his first cut.

Ghirahim would give Link this, he was managing to stay surprisingly quiet, breath coming out of the slash in his throat in bloody bubbles. Oh well. That wouldn’t last long.

Suddenly, something grey and massive slammed into them—a dog? No, a wolf, massive and furious, its teeth gnashing for Ghirahim’s throat, ripping through glamor flesh and exposing the metal below. Ghirahim gasped, the weight of the animal near impossible, and it took surprising strength to anchor himself as the beast took his throat in its mouth. Ere's blade masters slid an arm under each of Ghirahim's arms and pulled him out from under it. The wolf lunged to them instead, teeth black and oily. Ere yelled something as a blade master went down, but Ghirahim couldn’t hear it over the surprised ringing in his ears. There was a flash of blue—a time gate.

Link’s collapsed body was the last thing Ghirahim saw before the time and space magic wrapped him up in its cocoon, yanking him from this plane and back, back, back, back underground to the Yiga’s pathetic little hideout. Ghirahim coughed, feeling his neck and the shredded flesh there, as Ere loomed above him.

“What,” she spat, “Is it about following orders do you not understand?”

Ghirahim wasn’t listening. No, he was too busy feeling Link’s hot blood on his hands, smearing it into the holes on his own throat, and knowing at that moment that he would do more than kill the Sky Child and his friends: Ghirahim was going to destroy them, completely and utterly, their stupid fucking dog included.

#heroes gate #zelda au #links meet au #links meet #legend of zelda au #loz au #hg ghirahim

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 8 months

Text

Two Of A Kind ~ X.T. (final)

A/n: Posted according to my schedule! For a second at least lmao. Hope you like this, even with the bittersweet ending <3

Requested: yes

Word Count: 4200+

MASTERLIST

The first thing that happened was that they did some research to figure out who his equivalent was in this universe. They were shaken at finding out that in this world, he was dead. The face that was identical to his own was plastered with a grin, each arm around the shoulders of some kids that Y/n didn't recognize.

Apparently in this world, he either had never discovered his powers or didn't have them. He went to a normie school, with normal drama and normal friends. The boys he was standing with were the mayor's son and Tyler Galpin. It was from years ago, when apparently they'd all been close. They'd grown apart in the last year or so, as they'd all taken up other interests.

Y/n was an advocator for outcasts, and was supposed to have been the spokesperson for Outreach Day. He was sporty here, but had gotten kicked out of all the clubs, so he had taken to hiking instead. He had gotten mauled by the Hyde at the beginning of the year. Y/n found it strange to see a picture standing next to Tyler of all people, knowing what would happen less than a year later.

After that, it really came down to just getting him home. Weems didn't know much about his power, but she took it up as a personal responsibility to get him back to where he belonged. Not just to get rid of him but because it was growing more and more obvious that he was absolutely miserable here.

Two and a half weeks passed, and as it stretched, it was growing harder and harder to handle passing those who should have been his family in the halls.

Weems insisted he go to school, in case time was passing the same in his dimension and he missed any classes. She said it would give him something to do while he was waiting to get his energy back as well. It was all fine and dandy until he got paired up with Ajax in biology, or was set up to spar Bianca, or Enid gave him a tour. It was all fine and dandy until he noticed that Xavier, the identical to Y/n's boyfriend, pining over Wednesday fucking Addams.

In Y/n's world, Wednesday was aromantic. She had been very firm about it, aggressively rebuffing any and all attempts at romance. Not just a rejection of societal norms - she was just fine being friends with Enid now adays, and took part in social events more eagerly than before, especially after her first impression of a school dance being the blood/pain shower - but because she was repulsed by even the idea of such a relationship. She was fine with friends, and family, and even having a partner in crime. That had always been Enid or

Eugene.

But a romantic partner?

Absolutely not.

It turned out that Wednesday was aromantic here too, but leaned romantic favorable and was just fine turning her duo with Enid into a romantic relationship. She was even part of a polycule - Enid and Ajax were also dating. Wednesday seemed more than fine with this, as she could use it as an excuse to drag yet another person into her shenanigans, but also because when she had reached her limit on affection, Enid could simply go to Ajax for it instead. It was a fascinating thing to watch. Y/n being so used to Wednesday rolling her eyes and gagging at any such romance was almost comical as he saw Wednesday do all of the same things but then casually refer to Enid as her girlfriend, or Ajax as her "boyfriend once removed".

He almost had a very good time watching the dynamics play out. Almost, because watching them be themselves often lead to watching Xavier be awkward and jealous, and it was like a knife shoved into Y/n's ribcage.

Apparently Xavier had had a massive crush on Wednesday day one, and when she chose someone else he was cool about it - but it didn't change the fact that he still had feelings for her.

He was bad at hiding it, but not because he was bitter. The opposite in fact - he laughed too long at any and all jokes when they were being coupley, or looked a little too long when Enid and Wednesday walked down the hall, holding hands. Or when Enid pushed hair behind Wednesday's ear. Like he wished he could do it. Or he wouldn't look at all, as if he would die if his eyes wandered even close to the area that Wednesday, Enid and Ajax were in.

He was trying so hard to hide his feelings that he was basically saying it out loud.

Wednesday showed mercy in ignoring it, and even Enid was good natured in drawing attention away from the reactions Xavier just couldn't help.

Y/n wasn't as lucky.

People weren't used to his pining. Weren't even aware of it until he went to touch Xavier and then caught himself, or went to lean against Xavier and then pretended to crack his neck. When he went to do all those staple romantic things with Xavier, like playing with his hair or his fingers or stare at his lips or cuddle with him, or even sit a little too close - closer than friends usually did. Definitely closer than strangers did.

He always played it off, but never well enough. Wednesday picked up on it first, but the others followed quickly. The slight awkwardness that always managed to be stifled ran freely with the added element of Y/n in the mix as well.

The day that Xavier caught on, his eyes went so wide that Y/n stopped being around them altogether. Which... would have been fine, as Xavier had never minded avoiding conflict, except when Y/n went above and beyond to avoid him and it made a scene. One day he was sat next to Xavier and when Y/n fully asked to move places, rumors started and people started to ask Xavier what he'd done to the poor boy.

Xavier was fed up.

"Y/n, we need to talk."

Y/n winced, pausing on his way back to his dorm. It wasn't his dorm, the dorm he had in his world, but just a spare room he shared with himself. He missed being Eugene's roommate but this would do for now. In fact, he craved to be there right now. He craved the floor to open up and swallow him whole and whisk him away to a room where he could lock the door and hide away until it was all over.

Unfortunately, he was too far away to get to his dorm. Only outside the building, but Xavier's long legs had always gotten the best of him. So he turned, smile tight. "Yeah?" Immediately he found himself breathless as his gaze landed on Xavier. He had his hair down today, and it moved gently in the breeze. He had a coat on, his tall form wrapped in the long clothing, shielding him from the chill weather. His cheeks, nose and the tips of his ears were just a little pink - he had been here a while waiting. His eyebrows were drawn together, his lips in a thin line.

His lips.

Oh god.

"There's something major going on, and I don't think we should keep ignoring it." He sighed, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. "I did the ignoring thing - am doing, right now. And it doesn't work when you do it. Not... the way you're doing it?"

"Suffering in silence so loudly everyone can see it?" Y/n managed. He wasn't looking at Xavier, unable to stop himself from the remark. He had always been snippy, but his bantering had gotten worse since spending so much time with Wednesday. Especially with Xavier, who had come to deeply enjoy it.

In another world, at least.

Now he drew back, to his full height, face spiking with irritation. Y/n knew very well that Xavier was a private person. He didn't like anyone but his close friends knowing stuff that were weird or embarrassing about him. Let alone someone he viewed a complete stranger. "I came here to ask how I could help make this less shitty for you. Let's just cut to that."

Y/n's own irritation bubbled up. "Look, I get it. This is your world and I'm foreign here. I'm a factor you can't understand or account for and I mess everything up by being here. I make it hard for you, because you look at her the way I look at you and understanding her sucks, because you just want to pine and be okay with that. But let me give you a bit of advice? I've been here a week and you're already irritated with me. Wednesday spent an entire school year with you - hell, she has a whole girlfriend now. Just get over it."

He didn't know why he had said it. It felt good though, especially as Xavier scoffed, his body tensing. It was the most words the two had exchanged without running away from each other and attention from Xavier felt good.

Even attention like this.

"I get that we were dating in whatever world you're from - it's obvious as hell, don't pretend like you're lowkey about it, he began.

Y/n interrupted. He just had to bite back, taking a step closer with his face screwed up. "Bet it isn't even as obvious as you are."

Xavier's face went red. "What is your problem?"

"MY problem?" Y/n scoffed. "That's the dumbest question you could have possibly asked." There was a tug as his desperation to be away from here, away from this Xavier, grew so unbearable that Y/n found himself reaching out with his power without even meaning to. He tried to push it down, tried to focus on the argument, tried to ground himself with Xavier like he always had... but this wasn't the Xavier Y/n knew. The one who cared about him and could ground him at all. The one who loved him.

The Xavier who wasn't Y/n's sneered, "I'm stupid? You dropped face first into a world that isn't yours and immediately tried to have all the things you had before."

"I didn't try anything." That offended Y/n. He specifically hadn't tried to fox any of the bonds he missed, leaving room between him and everyone else for their benefits and at the cost of his feelings. He was spiraling, out of control, and pushed all the people who could have helped him away instead of letting even one of them help him. Enid and Eugene had really tried to help and even they had failed.

But then Xavier tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, and Y/n felt strangely exposed. Seen. "You did plenty. Wednesday and Enid got into a lot of fights when Enid kept trying to be friends with you, all because you kept telling her things about how you two used to be. Both because Enid kept risking herself for a person Wednesday didn't trust, and also because Wednesday put space between you even though you needed her. Everyone turned on me when you blew me off out of nowhere. Eugene went out of his way to try and be your friend and got his feelings really badly hurt when you blew him off like everyone else does even though you're supposed to be friends in your world. You walk around sulking, not sleeping or eating or talking to anyone - like a dark cloud in this school. Even more than Wednesday has been able to accomplish. You're a smear, a bad mood, that catches to everyone around you everywhere you go because you're so miserable and we all care about you. But you won't let anyone in. You won't let us help you so we all just get to suffer. And it's all because you want something you can't have!"

"It's not my fault I got launched into another universe!" Y/n was flabbergasted by how it so felt like he was being blamed by Xavier for people feeling pity. Blaming Y/n for making everyone else feel bad when all he was doing was feeling things? Missing his world?

Xavier shook his head. "Isn't it explicitly your fault?"

That stopped Y/n dead. It was fault after all. He had taken a risk and had been dealt consequences. It hadn't been on purpose, but Xavier knew that of course. Y/n however had launched himself into an entirely new place with new rules and new people and then made it everyone else's problem.

Y/n looked away from him, searching his surroundings for anything. Anything that could help or ground him or make this horrible feeling go away. All he could see suddenly were the subtle differences in the surroundings. The fading that was once there that wasn't there anymore because this school was a bit newer and they'd decided to take better care of everything. The paintings that were in slightly different spots, or altogether different images because different people had made them and placed them. The different furniture, the differently colored carpet - just a slightly different shade of blue than it had been in my world. The arched top of the windows versus the rectangular frame in Y/n's world.

This wasn't home.

"I didn't mean to make everyone suffer for me. I was just... feeling..." Y/n blinked away tears.

"Feelings isn't the problem," Xavier spoke quietly. When Y/n looked back at the boy, he saw all the anger gone, replaced by pity. He could see Y/n's hollowness, his panic, his untethered way of existing, and even Xavier ached for me as everyone else here did. "It's that you're just... sitting in it. You won't help yourself and you won't let anyone else help you. We wanted you, Y/n. We were willing to help you until you could go home. But you didn't want us. You couldn't accept a world that wasn't yours. And I get it but..." He shrugged, at a loss for words.

A tear fell down Y/n's cheek and he watched as Xavier suddenly avoided his gaze. So much had been said, and yet there was still so much to say. Y/n felt that tug, that pull, and he knew he had nothing to hold onto to keep him here. His powers had always been like being pulled by a magnet. When they activated he was caught in a tsunami, a storm that ripped him away - unless he could hold onto something. But there was nothing to hold onto.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Xavier looked up and his eyes went wide. His hand reached out for Y/n's shoulder and went through it. Y/n sighed, hanging his head and closing his eyes as he was ripped away from this Xavier, and this world, and sent spiraling into another. Like being sucked through a straw, or pulled backward at the waist by a string, he was yanked - and then he was falling.

Y/n didn't land. He never did. He just suddenly stopped being pulled, stopped falling, and opened his eyes to see a new world melting - like wet paint dripping down an upright canvas. And as it fell, it came into color and focus until a world filled in around him. This was an effect he was used to. He had landed.

Something in him burned as he realized that he was exactly where he had been standing, but in an entirely different world. He was in Nevermore Academy, in the exact same hallway and what seemed even the same time of day. This world even looked a lot closer to his, all of the differences he had noticed earlier being more accurate to how he remembered his own world.

In fact, it was so similar...

Immediately Y/n was running, as fast as his feet could carry him. He heard the bell ring and sprinted to the nearest classroom that belonged to his friends. His eyes widened when, as if summoned by the perfect moment, Wednesday exited her classroom just as Y/n turned the corner. He froze but the girl looked around as if sensing that she was being watched and met his eyes immediately. Her eyes shot wide and she moved quickly to him. "Where have you been?" She demanded. "if you say you went on some expedition without me because there's a new mystery and didn't involve me-"

Her stop was most assuredly because Y/n was crying. He held up his hand, palm facing the left, all fingers curled in except his pinky. It was something they had done when Enid was more demanding for affection but Y/n, who was better at holding himself back, had asked what Wednesday would have preferred and she allowed that physical contact was gross but brief, small touches were fine. They had started linking their pinkies as a show of affection or to make a promise, or to ground each other when either of them were upset or displaced. Sometimes to see if their argument had gone too for, or to test if they were forgiven. It was their thing.

Y/n wept harder when Wednesday reached up, hooking their pinkies together. "I'm back," Y/n whispered in a shaky tone. He felt his knees go weak and he leaned against the wall, letting his hand drop from Wednesday.

Wednesday stalled, reaching out to help Y/n up but being stopped by not wanting to touch him. With help from Y/n, everyone and gotten a lot better at giving Wednesday her space. She had gotten used to prioritizing her want to keep distance. She went to close the distance but Y/n put a hand out, pressing it against her shoulders to keep her away.

"Don't," he reassured her. His eyes flickered around the hall and relief hit him as he saw someone he recognized. "Bianca!"

The siren turned, searching for who had called her name. When she saw Y/n she reacted much as Wednesday had; eyes wide and steps fast. She dipped down and scooped Y/n, helping him stand as she asked, "Where the hell have you been?"

So time had passed. Lovely. "How long have I ben gone?"

That seemed to only worry the two girls more (what good could come from Y/n not knowing how much time had passed while he'd been wherever he'd been?) but Wednesday answered anyway. "A month and a half. The police stopped looking. They already don't care much about us, but when there was no trail or evidence to go off... even I stopped looking. I didn't stop hoping something would turn up, jumping at every opportunity, but there really was nothing to go off of." I appreciated her honesty/ It actually was a relief more than anything to know she hadn't gone insane looking for me... though I was also sure she was downplaying it at least a little bit. She hated when people worried about her or felt bad for her sake.

Y/n sighed, shaking his head. "Get me to the nurse's office. Then I need to see Weems, and..." He swallowed, terrified of seeing Xavier for some reason. Terrified that this wouldn't be exactly his world or that somehow he would still be lost. Maybe it was just a really close world. There were infinite worlds with infinite possibilities - there was a handful at least that would be minorly indistinguishable. Where it would all be the same but he and Xavier hadn't ended up together or one of them had died or-

He tried to stop overthinking.

The girls didn't push him, just did what he asked. He knew they did it so that they could pressure him to talk about what had happened while he was missing when they got back, and he prepared himself when Weems entered the room. Her recognition was back, her worry deep and overflowing with love and care. She reached out, brushing a piece of hair out of his face before her eyes raked him looking for injury.

One he would have complained. Now he almost broke into tears of joy again.

He explained everything, in only the details that needed to be said. Going to another world, why he had gone there and how it had all gone wrong, and that the other versions of them didn't recognize him but tried to help anyway. That they took good care of him.

It wasn't enough. They knew him too well, knowing that "they didn't recognize me" held a deep weight to him, but they didn't push. Half because they knew he couldn't handle it at this very moment and half because they wanted to switch gears to getting him to eat and drink water. Traveling had always been draining. he had been gone for less time for them than for him, but it had still been risky. The first time Y/n had traveled like this, it hadn't been on the scale of traveling whole dimensions and he had still been sick for weeks when he'd come back.

Enid showed up, with Eugene and Ajax. Ajax had brought more snacky foods, which had been a nice gesture and drove home even more the familiarity in this world. Eugene sat with him and distracted Y/n with help from Enid as she updated him on all the drama he had missed and Eugene went off about all the homework he had collected for Y/n and the notes he had taken. Eugene hadn't missed a single day. He hadn't lost hope.

It meant a lot.

"You were of course the biggest news," Enid sighed. "It was a really big deal until super recently. Weems wanted everyone to let it go until there was some kind of hope. So we could maybe start mourning you. It didn't look like you were coming back, and Xavier was struggling with everyone coming up with news to-" Bianca cleared her throat and suddenly Enid slammed her mouth shut.

Y/n's eyes had shot very wide. "What about Xavier?" He had been worried? In what way? Oh god were they hetero best friends? Were they brothers? Oh god Y/n was going to be sick.

Before she could answer the door opened and there was Xavier - as if he had been summoned. There was a very thick silence in the room as he didn't hesitate in the doorway, rushing to Y/n's side and sitting down, taking his hand. Okay definitely not platonic. "Are you okay?" He whispered? Y/n laughed, near hysterical.

Weems cleared her throat this time. "Everyone but Mr. Thorpe please leave the room. I think these two need some time to talk." That was enough for everyone else. They were gone and the two were alone. Y/n had never been more grateful to her than in that moment.

Xavier swallowed. "Enid texted me the run down. I..." he pursed his lips, pausing for a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Y/n didn't know exactly which part Xavier wanted to talk about. "I..." He let his head fall back on the dashboard. "Honestly the hardest part was being away from you guys in an emotional, even though all of you were right there. It would have been easier if I have been stranded somewhere without you entirely." He laughed without humor, his voice breaking.

"What can I do to help?" Xavier asked. Y/n looked him and felt his anxiety melt away as he saw an undeniable expression in the other boy's eyes. That oh-so familiar expression Y/n had seen a million times. The care and familiarity; the readiness to help; the love that poured from him.

Y/n swallowed. "What are we here?" It was an insane question for Y/n to ask, when up until now he had been delivering everything as if he was sure he was home, which meant their relationship should have been known, but Xavier knew him too well to question it. Anxiety never made sense.

"We're dating." Y/n sighed in relief, nodding his head. It was easier to ask questions after that, as he went through every single detail and verified it to make sure he really had come home.

He had.

When Y/n went quiet again, Xavier spoke. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Y/n shook his head, smiling. "Stay with me a while."

Xavier kissed his forehead. "Of course." Y/n closed his eyes, this time laying his head on Xavier's shoulder. And everything was okay again. Y/n wouldn't be trying any traveling risky like he had again, so it would be okay forever.

For him at least. In another world, a different Xavier stood in a hallway, eyes wide and heart breaking. He had been getting through to Y/n. Y/n was about to let go of his old world, and maybe they could have...

But no. Y/n was gone, and Xavier was alone again. He never would have had Wednesday, but knowing he would never have Y/n had been a different kind of pain. Y/n had been wrong after all, he had been over Wednesday for a long time. She was happy and out of his reach and he had been ready to move on. Not wanting her, but wanting what she had. And then someone already in love with him had dropped out of the sky, and he had tried to reach out to him again and again, see if they could make it in this world.

But Y/n had wanted to go back home.

Xavier put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, turning and walking to the principal's office to tell her that Y/n had gone home. It would be a lie - he wasn't sure - but a hopeful lie. He really hope the boy had made it. That he had gotten everything he had so missed. At least one of them should get a happy ending.

#xavier thorpe #wednesday #x reader #male reader #wedneaday x reader

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cc-kote · 4 months

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Heyyy~! Can you share something from the random sw fanfic ideas? *___*

SCREAMS don't mind if I do 👀

Ok so I haven't opened this folder in so long and it's jam packed full of so many random snippets and ideas, most of which were written at some ungodly hour of the morning while I was ripped out of my mind, so I completely forgot abt so many of them but holy shit. When I skimmed over it to answer this ask I found one that I should actually try my hand at someday.

It's Obi/Maul, and the rough little plot idea went something like:

Through some funky force magic shenanigans Obi-Wan is yoinked from his timeline into another that is pretty parallel to his original universe, except him and Maul swapped places (I feel like this might be a common trope bc it was the first fuckin thought I had when I started putting them in The Scenarios, I haven't actually read too much Obi/maul despite eyeballing that ship for like a year now). Like Maul is a Jedi Knight and Obi-Wan is the Sith apprentice, and in this other timeline they've had a longstanding rivalry going on, all that sweet sweet homoerotic arch enemies shit you know the drill. ANYWAY. This certainly shakes things up for them. Cue a predictably hostile-turned incredibly fucking awkward first meeting when Obi-Wan waltzes right on into the Jedi Temple like he belongs there, in a universe where he Most Definitely Doesn't. (I'd assume Maul would probably have to sneak him around because of this. God the bickering. The squabbling. The fucking bANTER.)

But like. Oooo where's this Timeline's Kenobi?? I wonder where that asshole ended up. 😈

So yeah the main plot was basically supposed to follow Obi-Wan learning all the parallels and contrasts of this timeline vs his own and getting to know this version of Maul, while also trying to track down Evil Kenobi™️ and get back to his Original timeline. But ohhh noooo what if by some sick twist of fate they start to develop ✨feewings ✨ for eachother? That would sure complicate things. Better hope that doesn't happen so they can set things right between their timelines without any of that gay shit complicating things even more :)

Ty for indulging me I could ramble about all my little stories/ideas for days on end hhh.

#wip tag game #obimaul #my fics #plot bunny #i cant believe i forgot about this oh my god #its been sitting in thst folder for months now #hhhh im tempted #so fucking tempted

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thewriterowl · 1 year

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I just want to say that I absolutely adore What the Stars Let In and Hope Persevering, they were so epic and romantic and, in the case of Hope, a little bitter, and that I haven't read Blooms yet but I have it open in a tab that I haven't touched yet because I'm nervous to start it! Anyway!

So I'm a sucker for bad guys and bad guy redemption arcs, and I read this fic, can't recall the name I'm sorry, it wasn't DinLuke, BUT it was an AU where Maul never found Obi-Wan and lived and he senses a distressed Luke on Hoth and makes himself his mentor. Luke, sunshine baby that he is, takes to him despite knowing Maul's trying to turn him Dark and doesn't put up with his shit and Force ghost Obi-Wan gives Maul all kinds of shit and together they slowly drag Maul out of the dark and he becomes super protective of Luke and by extension Leia. It's great, I love it, shenanigans all over. Dad Maul ftw.

Anyway. I can't help but wonder in such a case, with Luke having a surrogate darkside uncle, how would said semi-reformed uncle react to Din trying to court Luke and if you may have a thought to share? It just seems like a funny concept to me and I want to see if anyone else agrees. I just imagine Force ghost Obi laughing in the background and Anakin not sure who he wants to kill more.

:D Hello! Thank you for joining in and giving my fics a chance! Sorry for the delay in a response--asks sometimes get pushed back since there can be a lot of them and I am usually scrambling to get weekly updates in. I want you to know I really appreciate you taking the time to say this! It really does make me so happy and excited!

Omg, that fic sounds amazing. If you ever remember the title/link please share!!

So, Uncle Maul for Luke and needing to deal with Din coming in to court his baby. I love it. I also love it because we can just say that Maul didn't find Obi-Wan but he still found Ezra. So there would be this other level of pettiness because he does have a soft spot for his other apprentice.

So, it wouldn't just be that Maul would have to share with Din, no, Maul would be meaner than that. He is manipulative and calculating and likes to go for someone's weakness.

"Luke, I have been around non-Force-users and Mandalorians far too much...this one," His nose would scrunch, "is beneath you. Perhaps we should call Ezra...i think he would take better care of you."

And oooh would it drive Din mad.

Maul would know exactly the insecurities and flaws to Din's character, maybe hyping them up more than what they had been, and would just twist the knife in.

Besides, it's good for people to have rivalry and he was close to turning Ezra dark here and there and his Luke deserved to be fought over.

"It is a better way to find you a mate. Whoever wins gets courting rights."

Din is all about to tackle Ezra to the ground for that. Poor guy is just "Maul, stop trying to get revenge over me because I never helped you find Kenobi."

"KENOBIIIIII"

#owl inbox

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secret-engima · 1 year

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Any snippets or headcanon rambles for Calling for Rain? I’m sick and unable to sleep because of how stuffy my head is so I’d love to hear more about Yuriko and Iruka and Hayate’s genin days.

*kicks down door in the All Might Pose* I AM HERE WITH TEAM IRUKA SHENANIGANS FOR THINE AMUSEMENT AND RESTORED HEALTH. @a-world-in-grey

SO. Genin shenanigans with Team Iruka, or should I say *TEAM 7*. Because you just known I gotta distribute that cursed luck around a little. Besides that I feel like there's a very confusing and rapid cycle that the team numbers undergo, with numbers being available for reassignment either when a genin team graduates and separates or are wiped out, or if an intended team is failed by their sensei and sent back to Academy or into the corps. And so *really*, "Team 7" as a moniker by rights should be passed down at least once in between Kakashi's genin years and Naruto's. Probably more than once, considering the fanon that Team 7 has a Reputation™.

Their sensei is a civilian-born OC that I'm still working on the details of but so far I've decided that their sensei is a woman, who is small but mighty (and feral). Has sharp teeth that tends to be seen more often in those descended from the islands of Mist Country, but if you say that in her earshot you better be prepared for the consequences. I want her to have a special skillset but I'm still debating what kind. Anyway.

Like every Team 7, their first C-rank goes absolutely *pear shaped*, this may or may not have been the infamous Mission to Tea, but probably isn't? I cannot remember if I've state otherwise previously but my gut says that their first C-rank was likely something involving not so far afield. Like dealing with bandits bothering merchants in Land of Fire, or running supplies to some of the Konoha outpost towers dotted around the border. This is after the war mind you, so a supply running mission or a bandit dispersal should be a milk run.

I haven't hammered out exactly what happens, but I do know that things go hard south, be that an attack from rogue ninja or from bandits who are more skilled than a C-rank bargains for, and the genin get separated from their sensei in whatever chaos occurs, and during that, Hayate gets a lungful of something poisonous used by the attackers.

You might see where *that* is going down the line in his life.

Cue three kids, running around for at least a few *days*, possibly a week, separated from their sensei, green as grass and feral as wolf pups, trying to stay alive and also keep each other alive. Especially Hayate, who is not doing too hot. They end up running for the nearest village, hoping for a doctor, with Iruka and Yuriko trauma bonding very hard over keeping a wheezy, semi-conscious Hayate alive. The local village doctor *is* able to save Hayate's life, but not completely undo the damage that has been done, which is what leads to Hayate's chronic health/lung issues we see in the canon timeline. Despite his new wheezy condition, all three genin are able to rally and, using Yuriko's spiteful brain, Iruka's genius for traps, and Hayate's streak of common sense, they're able to essentially turn the entire village into a much more lethal version of Home Alone for the bad guys that come after them.

The leader of the bad guys who chased them probably gets through the traps and is Fully Ready for some mass villager and child soldier slaughter but that's about the second their sensei shows up, injured herself but having bested like- the entire rest of whatever group started this conflict, and mauls the guy. There's a lot of blood involved.

Taking Hayate *back* to Konoha to get looked at by medical shinobi is able to improve his condition somewhat, but by now only a healer on the level of Tsunade could fully cure him from the damage that's been done. For most genin, especially a sponsorless orphan genin like Hayate? That would be career ending. Very few jounin would want to deal with the added complications of a chronically ill genin, let alone sit back through the long recovery and rehab/adjustment period he needs to go through.

Hayate's sensei decks the first jounin that tells her to ditch the brat and either pick a new one out of Academy or throw the other two in the corps.

Hayate's team closes ranks around him, helping him through his adjustment period, and even helps getting him a sword master teacher, something he has always been interested in, but had thought impossible after his injury. His sword master, a fierce and elderly Uchiha woman, teaches him not only to master the blade, but to master his body and learn how to wring every drop of strength and lethality out of his new limits.

The team dynamic that formed in that hectic C-rank gets solidified and honed into something tight. Iruka is the trouble magnet, but also the trap master. Yuriko, who grew up in a wealthy merchant household, is the face of the group during anything that involve infiltration (the only time she bothers to use her etiquette lessons). Hayate, with his sword and health limits, is the backup (and often the braincell). Their sensei is basically there to haul their collective butts out of whatever fire Iruka set and forgot to arrange a way to put out. She also grills them on training, running them through team building exercises until they drop.

Some additional things now that I've done backstory building:

Iruka and Hayate have a very respectful and healthy fear of women thanks to their genin teammate and sensei. Arguably especially Yuriko, because they spent more than a few missions sharing a tent with her and know the power of her grudge holding abilities.

Iruka revenge pranks anyone who mocks Hayate for his health issues. *Anyone*. Anbu Hawk of that era had a very very very hard time explaining to his coworkers why his hair spontaneously turning fluorescent blue was totally his own life decision and not that he made the mistake of telling a genin with a cough to "know his limits" while in his chuunin identity and the genin's 14 year old teammate somehow stalked him to his apartment, dismantled his anbu grade security, and put an unremovable, scentless dye in his shampoo and now he has to wait for the dye'd hair to grow out enough to cut the colored part off.

Yuriko's parents were very :/ about her being put on a team with "mere orphans" instead of a clan kid because they already disapproved of her becoming a shinobi (but legally couldn't stop her), but at least if she was on a team with a clan boy there was a chance for marrying in. Yuriko took this as the sign to befriend her two orphan buddies and be the Most Ride Or Die Kunoichi Teammate to ever live. You might have noticed by this comment and the one in CfR about her becoming a genin corps member specifically to get disowned by them and realized she has Issues with her family. Like. Just in general. It's not just her parents. But that's a talk for another post probably.

Their chuunin exam took place in Kiri when Iruka was 16, not long after Iruka decided he wanted to become a chuunin teacher at Academy rather than a jounin (even though he had the potential to do so) which was basically fun trauma times for all. When their teacher told them they had basically been voluntold to go to the exams in Kiri rather than let any of the teams with important clan kids go, they all had a powwow about what they wanted out of this deathtrap of an assignment. Hayate wanted to be promoted to chuunin because he had his sights set on becoming a jounin sword master that would be eligible to take on an apprentice someday, Iruka wanted to be promoted so he could immediately sign up to be an Academy teacher.

Yuriko: I wanna wash out into the genin corps.

Iruka and Hayate, who know that of them Yuriko is actually the most terrifying when it comes to frontline combat: ... um.

Yuriko: my parents have been talking about arranging a marriage of suitable value once I make chuunin or jounin.

Her two friends: ...understandable, sounds like a plan.

You have no idea how many genin from other villages these three managed to terrify. No idea. And the confusion when Yuriko dropped out at the 3rd stage of 1 vs 1 matches was huge.

They were *probably* the only one of the three Konoha teams sent to survive? The other villages had similarly bad losses, one of them (Iwa or Suna maybe) potentially lost *all* the teams they sent. The three of them surviving an exam in Kiri should be far more of a warning flag of these three's skill in general than most people actually realize.

All three of them still hang out when they can, usually just hanging out in an apartment and chatting, but sometimes they spar and let loose, which is *hilarious* and chaotic when you consider their various specialties and that only Hayate officially has jounin rank.

Their sensei is still alive! And doing good all told. She may or may not have another group of brats following on her heels during the current part of CfR's timeline. She comes and checks in on her only Team 7 when she has time.

#SE asks #a world in grey asks #Calling for Rain verse #umino iruka #OC: Yuriko #gekko hayate

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maul-antics · 1 year

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On your post about Din Djarin accidentally bringing one of the past Mand'alore and it being Jango Fett.

I have been thinking about this constantly for years now since they did the teaser for the Mandalorian and it has constantly disappointed me that there is no ounce of Jango Fett in it (though I highly appreciate the fact that Boba Fett was there and is now in disarray because Season 3 ended with Boba not being in it), please tell us more of your thoughts! I've been itching to also write about this with my undying love for the Fetts for over decades over.

It was a thought I was thinking about the other night about the different ways the Darksaber could be haunted as a result of all the power and belief that's put into it by centuries of Mandalorians using it as one of the symbols for a leader. One of the ways was just having the ability for it to bring one of the past Mand'alor to the current present (whenever that may be) and just having whoever is holding the Darksaber deal with it. Force Shenanigans and all that.

Which is why I think Jango would be a good option for a fic based around that idea due to his involvement with the Clone Wars/history with the Jedi on Galidraan and how he would be perceived by a lot of people including Boba after three decades of being dead. (I would also kill for the Darksaber bringing back Maul just for the hilarity and how people who try to kill him on sight after a brief period of like 7 years being dead lol.) I don't have much beyond that since it was me pondering on an idea late in the night, but if I were allowed to work on it with a bit more focus, I would do something where Jango would have to confront what happened to Boba after dying when he did and how much misery was caused as a result. Not all of it his fault, but certainly a catalyst for a lot of it.

I also wouldn't be opposed to doing an adventure that involved a lot of shenanigans that has Din and Jango grow close together since I'm a sucker for Din/Jango when an idea strikes me.

#ask #dukeoftheblackstar #writing ramblings #din djarin #jango fett

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certified-anakinfucker · 1 year

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ah, a pinned post

hi im cheeri! | african american | in my 20s (18+) | it/its

whats up yall. back at it again. it seems i changed my major so i may as well finally make a pinned post about it!

im a former clone wars major (minoring in a whole lot of cultural lore and worldbuilding) - ive since moved to the old republic, but my minors are pretty much the same, just new subjects and focuses. minors include togruta biology and cultural lore, twi'lek cultural lore, and mandalorian cultural lore! ive added minors on the sith purebloods on top of both the sith religion and imperial culture. sometimes i poke the chiss with a stick. more often than not im poking the jedi with many sticks.

dni: master/padawan shippers, cl*necest / twincest or incest otherwise, rexs*ka / mauls*ka, anything that’d get you put on a federal list irl || if you openly send / encourage death threats or otherwise make excuses for those that do .. scram. this is not a safe space for you :3

sideblog directory under the cut!

⊹ @cinematic-cheeriverse || for my main au-posting, world/lorebuilding, all that fun stuff

⊹ @milf-anakinfucker || writing blog… one can dream

⊹ @certified-hunterfucker || SWTOR blog. lmao. i should actually use it

⊹ @forceblessed || was a silly blog specifically for my main au anakin + his shenanigans. might use it for that exact purpose

⊹ @cheeri-wine || nsft [does my funny dance]

⊹ @ncis-hyperspace || an au blog that's sorta perpetually under wip

⊹ @historicallyblackmando || i need to get back on my mando'a :]

#cheeri pinned

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ao3feed-undertale1 · 2 months

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Reality Gets Punched In The Face With Disastrous Results More At Six You Filthy Animals

read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/53992837 by DistantManiacalLaughter This is the very long, very arduous story of a skeleton named W.D Gaster. He’s a kind skeleton, a cheerful one, with good morals and perhaps a tad amount of mad scientist in him. He has a good job, two wonderful sons, and he is screaming, because he’s been torn out of reality with as much delicacy as a predator has for a mauled animal. He has done — and I stress! — absolutely nothing to deserve this. He is a good man, in a horrible situation. He thinks he’s at rock bottom, but I’ve just whipped out a shovel. (To give you a proper idea of what you’re in for: Frisk dies about two minutes in, the player resets so much they actually break something important, I smash Gaster down into his core elements then slowly piece him back together again in the name of freedom, and the universe reacts about as well as one might expect. I go ape OC-ifying the Gaster followers. Distant, Maniacal Laughter.) (Fight me, Maggie.) Words: 6265, Chapters: 2/38, Language: English Fandoms: Undertale (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: W. D. Gaster, Gaster Follower(s) (Undertale), Sans (Undertale), The Riverperson (Undertale) Relationships: Me/Unnecessary Worldbuilding Additional Tags: Gaster is a Good Father, Canon-Typical Existential Horror, escaping the void, universe shenanigans, A 100’000+ word fic about W.D Gaster trying to get home, Odessey-style, He misses his family so much it hurts, The Goners Are…Relevant(understatement), No shipping, Not a crack fic, but I don’t take myself too seriously either, I Update Very Erratically, This is my magnum opus, Timelines Get Tangled (threat), Gaster is a good person. Fight me on this., Sans Adopted Someone Again, Undyne nearly kills a guy!, This is to me what Love As A Construct is to Iammemyself, Not kidding, help me, Why Are There So Many AU’s Now I’ve Been In This Fandom In Years And Yet —, WHY ARE PEOPLE SHIPPING CONDIMENTS?? WHATS A KUSTARD, not specifically an angst fic, more like a me trying to un-angst the canon lore fic, Gaster ain’t doing well honeybee, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/53992837

#ao3feed #ao3undertalefeed #fanfic #undertale #undertale-fanfic

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purpleturtle9000 · 1 year

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TUMBLR KEEPS CRASHING EVERY TIME I TRY TO SEND AN ASK SO I HOPE THIS WORKS

Little Leo and Tello how do interact I’m dying to know if shenanigans happen I am on my knees pls I love ur turtles so much

TUMBLR WE'RE GONNA FIGHT

okay are you ready for obnoxiously long ramblings about ninja turtles

Having finished this, I feel like it needs a TLDR so - Tello claims that Little Leo just annoys him, but they're bonded and nobody believes them. Also their D&D characters constantly bother each other and Leo goes to Tello for advice (and Tello goes to Leo when they need a reminder the world never ended after all).

Little Leo tends to drive Tello nuts. Partly because he's sixteen and therefore obnoxious, and partly because Tello's used to dealing with a mature and grown-up Leonardo who takes things seriously. Like, yes, they remember also being an obnoxious teenager, but they always thought Leo was worse, 'cause that's how twins work.

Also it's impossible to separate twins for long (excluding traumatic death and/or disappearance, oops). So whenever Donnie and Tello get into a nerd spiral and spend seven hours straight in the lab, Leo and Leonardo always show up eventually.

Leonardo chills quietly on a couch in the back and just makes sure they remember food and water exist. Leo has no chill whatsoever and constantly asks questions about what they're doing, and will that explode if he touches it, and will that set him on fire if he touches it, and when are they gonna get back to that Lou Jitsu marathon they started last night?

Tello hates being bothered when they're working on Science, so often as not, Little Leo gets unceremoniously shoved out of the door with one of Tello's metal arms. He's always very dramatic about it, but that never keeps them from getting rid of him. (If they find one of Leo's blue silly bandz on their metal arm that shoved him out, they're only soft about it for two seconds. But they also keep all the bandz, and talk to the squishmallow Leo gifted them when they need to figure out problems, so they're not fooling anyone.)

Unfortunately, blue and purple turtles have unshakeable twin instincts, which means that Tello and Leo have bonded in much the same way as Donnie and Leo. (This does not exactly work for Donnie and Leonardo, however, as they have their own problems, aka Donnie still holds a grudge about Leonardo bitching out Leo).

So Tello's two moods regarding Leo are "if you don't get out of my lab Right The Fuck Now you're going to get stabbed" and "if anyone bothers you, let me know and I will maul them".

Leo loves bothering Tello as much as he loves bothering Donnie. No matter how old the twins are, bothering each other is a requirement, and Leo is happy to indulge in being bothersome. Also no matter how many times Tello threatens to stab him, they never follow through on it, so he's pretty confident that he's in their good graces. Tello is far less of a cuddler than Donnie is (something something trauma) but Leo's okay with that.

Tello has even more advanced tech than Donnie, and Leo thinks that's pretty cool, because he knows how much advancing tech means to his twin. It's at a way higher level than he can understand, but he sees how excited Donnie and Tello get over it, which is enough to convince him to fake being excited about it too.

He also thinks that Tello's prosthetics are cool, even if he's not entirely sure what to think about Tello having hair. Mostly because why would any turtle have hair? But he can tease Tello about sometimes having blue hair ties, because of course he does. Gotta give your twin shit about liking you, after all.

Fortunately all four twins have something in common: a love for tabletop games. Put four gay nerds together and you will have D&D going in no time. If Tello stabs the table once because they constantly rolled poorly in that one session, that's the table's problem. Everyone else knows to stay out of the blood circle by now.

They also all love Jupiter Jim movies, but that creates a problem. See, Leonado and Tello are what you might call "traumatised from spending two-thirds of their lives fighting aliens", and sometimes the creatures in the JJ-verse remind them of the Krang. Over time, they've figured out their triggers, and Leo is now their guinea pig: he watches all the movies and takes notes on the scenes that he thinks will bother them, so they can figure out which ones to avoid.

When Leo's worried about something, but he doesn't want to bother Donnie, he will bother Tello! Cause they have the experience to give advice, and Leo doesn't feel like he's as much of a bother, given what Tello dealt with in the future. After fighting the end of the world, it's no problem to deal with a teenager's insecurity and crushes.

A lot of Tello's advice sounds remarkably like "I don't know, just stab them". Leo does not take this advice, but he does appreciate that Tello always comes up with some kind of answer to what he's dealing with. They don't have to be helpful, he just wants to know they were listening.

Tello does not need advice from Leo (or anyone else, to hear them tell it). But after so long fighting a war, sometimes they're not sure that it's actually over. When they're having a hard time adjusting, they look for Leo. The little one, who's an impetuous goofball, who plays jokes, who keeps trying to find ways to dye Tello's hair even though there's no dye in the world that will change black hair to neon blue. The one who's not like he was at fifteen, before the Krang came - but the one who proves to Tello that innocence is still in this world, even if it's not in them. The one who gives Tello hope.

#i love rambling about wify meta so thank you for the ask!!!#rottmnt leo #rottmnt future donnie #series: when i found you i found me

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kimageddon · 2 years

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A Prince of Dathomir - Q&A 100 Celebration

Introduction:

Thank you to everyone that has been reading thus far, those that have been here from the beginning, and those that have recently started this fic. That is a lot of words so I hope those that binged have enjoyed everything so far!

There are a few easter eggs that I wanna point out, some behind the scenes and inspirations I am curious whether anyone noticed.

Some may have noticed the Fifth Element reference in a blink and you’ll miss it moment during the events of the comic featuring Eldra Kaitis.

The name of Zaiya’s father is actually a hint as to who he’s related to. Temuss is a reference to a very dark film that Temuera Morrisson was a part of (and I believe was the main factor in getting the role of Jango in the first place). It was a film I was forced to watch called Once Were Warriors and was about a Maori family dynamics and featured domestic violence, child abuse and suicide. It was brilliantly done and all the actors were incredible but it was very badly triggering. The name of Temuera’s character was Jake The Muss (the muscle) and in a reference to him and his character, Temuss Fett got his name. Only one person has ever gotten that one!

Originally Jango Fett’s fate was going to be canon compliant. One line of dialogue made me realise that I had to either make him live or that Zaiya would have to babysit Boba for the rest of the story. I only realised that as I was writing the line. I had such a strong sense of Zaiya’s character that there was no way she would stay silent -- she would offer her help in that case. It made the re-planning for the future chapters a little annoying.

I have such a sense of Zaiya in my head that I can “invoke” her character and were anyone to send me questions, I could indeed have her reply or talk to people as strange as that might sound.

The “bad” chapters when Zaiya was enslaved, were inspired by a very abusive relationship that I was stuck in for 10 years. I had to dial back a lot of the details for those chapters so they are a lot more watered down than I had originally planned, but I am glad I did. I have several people that literally cried on reading them and my friends were a little bit triggered by it. For anyone that felt those chapters hit a sore spot, I’m so sorry you’ve been hurt. You aren’t alone.

D’Sarr’s name is quite clever in my humble opinion, it originates from the Marquis de Sade who was the author of the book The 120 Days of Sodom and the inspiration for the word sadist. Fitting name, I thought.

The following are questions that come from Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, FF.net, Discord and my DMs. Questions were submitted by Summathespaceman, Corruptedmaia, @eloquentmoon, @high-functioning-fangirl473, Antex-the Legendary Zoroark, @moonstrider9904, @justalittletomato, @stardustbee and @maulslittlemeowmeow.

Thank you so so much for the questions, comments, fanart, feedback and the love you have shown to me over the last year and a half. Thank you so so much to you and all my readers, commenters and friends. You have brought a life to my life that I really needed.

About the writing/story:

Do you know where you're going to end the story or are you just seeing where it takes you?

I know there needs to be an ending and I have a lot of story to go before I am anywhere near the end. There is the Mandalore Arc, the Seige, Order 66 and Solo where we have canonicaly seen Maul and his shenanigans. I admit I don’t have a solid ending, though I do have ideas for adventures that aren’t mentioned in canon. It’s a very roundabout way to say yes and no. No, I don’t have “The Ending” set but I do have a vague idea of where I want to go.

Would Maul and Zaiya ever be able to have children given Maul’s new *ahem* appendages?

Technically yes. However I am still debating whether to include any mention of possible pregnancy in the fic at all as I know a lot of people dislike pregnancy in fics. I am one of them. If it were mentioned, I think perhaps it would be fleeting and potentially traumatic. I know someone who has pregnancy as a trauma point and so there is a lot of debate within myself as to whether I put it in at all. So technically they could, whether or not they will is another thing entirely.

Are you going to be diving into the Son of Dathomir comic for the story considering it was a Clone Wars scrapped start arc for Maul?

As weird as parts of that comic were, I do actually like it quite a bit so I think that it is important for Maul’s personal growth. And Zaiya’s too of course. So while I will not reveal the extent of what events I will be using from that comic, I can say yes, I am interested to use it as a basis of some events that might take place.

Seeing as Zaiya has been "officially" dubbed as a traitor, what sort of destinations will she and Maul retreat to?

They have quite a few places to go while they find their way, of course Dathomir is one of the first places, but once they have a ship again, they will need to seek their own fortunes. I have ideas, some scary, some more fun, and without severe spoilers… perhaps they need to find Zaiya a crystal of her own for a …certain weapon? I think that will be fun!

I noticed that Obi Wan could feel like he’s "seen" the Lightsaber Zaiya used. I’m assuming he’ll eventually connect the dots. So my thoughts are how things may hypothetically go once they meet again?

Obi-Wan is no fool, he’ll figure it out eventually, though whether or not it’s too late for him to do anything about it remains to be seen. I can only imagine he will treat her much the same as he does Ventress… I do wonder how that will go for Maul? I don’t think he will like that very much, will he?

When it comes to gaining an edge over Palpatine, is it possible you could use some Star Wars Legends lore to perhaps "even the field"? Like gaining artefacts or other possible post arts that could benefit them before Palpatine gets his slimy hands on them? Thus building their power ever more than his? They are as he’d say "a rival"!

I am very careful when I craft my characters to keep them balanced and make them fit the world. Anakin is completely overpowered of course but even he cannot do everything. Palpatine has experience and he is the same age as Qui-Gon I believe. While I do think Maul and Zaiya will be searching for something to help them defeat Sidious, I need to make sure she is still at a level where she can still encounter danger and things that oppose her are still a threat. So if they do find something to help them, it will need to be very powerful indeed!

Have you any plans for Mandalore? If so, might I suggest relocating a possible Force Cadre of Nightbrothers to train there if they’re successful in showing them the ways of the Force and conquering Mandalore?

Short answer: yes I have plans for Mandalore.

Slightly longer answer: absolutely I have plans for Mandalore and I don’t want to spoil the story line but we will be spending some time there as we did with Kamino. Some of my favourite plans involve the Mandalore arc and I am very much looking forward to writing it!

I know APOD is still just at its start…do you plan to continue past certain events from Rebels?

When I first watched the fated episode, it was barely thirty seconds in before I was utterly bawling - the episode had been spoiled for me before I watched it properly - and in that moment I realised that Maul seemed fated to that place on the sands of Tatooine. That with the way he was raised and the tragedy of his life, it really only could have ended one way.

The very next moment I vowed to write a fic that’s entire purpose was to avoid that fate. The whole reason I began writing was to give Maul a choice, a real choice to avoid his fate.

Part of me however wonders if I should be cruel and have the moment arrive anyway. Have Zaiya try to save him and for it to all prove folly.

That would be terribly evil, wouldn’t it? I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it. But I do wonder.

What has been your favourite way to get inspired for your writing?

Music. As Siren was born from song so too does my inspiration for cool scenes and dramatic moments… but also the smaller softer moments too. I almost always have music playing whenever I write.

How did you come up with the idea in the first place? Have you planned it to be this long in the beginning?

I may have mentioned it before, but I had been contemplating delving into the world of fan fiction and creating a character to go in the Star Wars universe. I was hesitant but a few things aligned for it to happen.

Firstly was my rediscovery of Tumblr, second was the choice to stop taking my antidepressants, wanting to get into writing etc and all of this was floating around my mind at the time aimlessly.

Then I watched the infamous Rebels episode. I bawled all the way through it and the moment it ended I said. “HELL NO” and threw open my laptop.

I have a planning document that has all the chapter names and a short blurb with what is in that chapter. I wrote out the events from their birth to I think so far it’s til Order 66. It will go beyond that but I have yet to write a lot of it, it’s mostly in my head. I will say, I have added so many chapters as I have been writing expanding scenes etc -- and coming up with singular words that do not repeat is not easy!

-- I just counted. I have at LEAST EIGHTY FOUR CHAPTERS planned. Ant that only gets us to Order 66. At this rate, chapter 200 will be the siege of Mandalore and all that entails. My god… I am realising the depth of my insanity.

Did you start posting APOD as soon as you started writing it? Or did you build up a bit of a library before you let people see it?

I built up a few chapters, like ten or so, though I didn’t have the guidelines for how long chapters were when I started, hence some big re-writes about a year ago and why the early chapters were so short.

I tend to begin a chapter with dot points for what will happen and write it out to be approximately 5 - 7k in length, then when posting I split it into part 1 and 2. My reasoning for this was to not post big chunks at once and also so I could post more often. I am currently (at the point of writing this) two full chapters ahead and I like to be that way so that my wonderful beta reader has plenty of time to read and edit, and also so I do not have to fret if I don’t write as much in one week.

About the characters:

What character from the Star Wars universe that isn't in APOD yet would you love to write/put in the story?

There are a few I like, one being Qui-Gon! I did mention him in the AU story Sins of the Father and it made me really want to put him in. I didn’t think I could but then I read “Ghosts of Maul” and now I wonder if Force Ghost Qui-Gon could appear. I have no idea how but… well it’s an idea.

Another character I really like is Ahsoka! She’s awesome and I definitely plan to include her though I am not sure where they would meet, but I am working on it!

Have you created Adaji's full backstory? I loved his POV, will we get more Adaji content at some point? Maybe more flashbacks?

I definitely do want to create more around his story, as some may know I posted a little blurb about his backstory a while ago, regarding his family and his history. One day I hope to be able to include it into the story itself though I have to find the right moment to do so.

Please tell me our baby boy Savage is going to live (same with Feral)?

Alright I don’t wanna spoil exactly HOW it will happen… but I will admit that YES Savage and Feral at this point in time -- the plan is to make them survive. It hurt too much to watch them die in Clone Wars and I am going to try to keep them alive. I say try. Sometimes the story evolves on its own. :/

What character has been your favourite to explore?

I would say Maul most definitely, getting into his mind and motivations and such, delving into his past and unexplored aspects of his psyche.

Secondarily I would say Savage, because I definitely think that he deserves exploring and I have enjoyed writing about him.

About Zaiya:

What has been your inspiration for Zaiya’s evolving looks throughout the fic? I am wondering if she has been inspired by any real life cultures at all.

Ooh! I like this one! Zaiya’s looks have had an influence in the way I have studied the Nightsisters and specifically Merrin’s designs. I wanted the hair to be important, and I looked at a few aspects of warrior braids and there was an inspiration from vikings/Nordic culture that I took for her hair design I wanted her to be fierce, strong and I felt that the Norse had a very interesting hair style, they inspired me with the power it represents.

Zaiya herself in her physical characteristics I wanted her to have the physical attributes of a Polynesian woman, her nose, build etc was my inspiration, as it’s briefly mentioned, Temuss her father is similar-looking to Jango.

When did the idea of Zaiya as a character *first* come to you? For example, did you have her in your head in any kind of way before you started writing APOD or was she crafted for the story specifically?

I can’t say specifically when she came to me, she developed naturally as I began to craft a character that I wanted to be Maul’s equal. Not the same in powers and strengths, but her own strengths and powers to make up for his weaknesses and the connections of trauma and injustice etc.

I put together names from sounds I liked and I knew I wanted a ‘Z’ name, and wrote down letters and sounds, I kept coming back to ‘Zaiya’ and the feeling of her name really solidified her character and I could begin to picture her. So I suppose she began first as an idea of an equal, but once her name came into being, that was when she really solidified as a character, it was like her personality was in her name as weird as that sounds.

Please would you tell us where the idea of Zaiya's powers/her being a siren came from? Were you inspired by anything in particular, did anything spark it into life?

Music is very much a part of my life and I have music playing constantly. I personally can’t sing or play and instrument, but I have always found inspiration in songs. I can’t remember at what point I chose to make her a Siren but it was early on. I wanted her to see the Force in a way that was not described previously, and perhaps that’s due to my own way of seeing things differently but I wanted her to be in touch with the deep and mysterious side of the Force. Maul is strong with his fighting style though in his characterisation he was more physical than spiritual. To me, music ties into that, so hearing people in the Force as music, receiving songs and feelings in the Force. I also listened to a lot of songs and imagined music videos in my head and imagined Zaiya doing cool stuff and was like “wouldn’t this be awesome?”

Do the patterns of Zaiya's tattoos mean anything specifically in Nightsister culture?

So something I read of the Nightbrother markings was said to indicate their physical prowess and strength, whereas the Nightsisters in my opinion base themselves in the more mystical arts. The lines of Zaiya’s tattoos are an indicator of her power, how she has magic in her hands and feet as she walks. The squiggly looking lines over her eyes are ancient symbols that suggest she sees things differently. The multiple ‘eyes’ (the incomplete circle patterns on her hands, feet and belly) on her body give a strong root of power in her core and her extremities. It’s part of the reason Talzin keeps her close, Zaiya has always been destined for power.

If you give Zaiya an irl theme song, what would it be and would she sing it if she knew it?

I left this question for a while because I was thinking about it for a long time. There a lot of songs that I like for her, and I think I will have to settle on “What Could Have Been” from the Arcane soundtrack. She absolutely would sing it, with her whole chest. Sidious hurt of her

Some of my favourite lyrics are:

I am the monster you created

You ripped out all my parts

I am your ghost, a fallen angel

You ripped out all my parts

I couldn't care what invention you made me

'Cause I, I was meant to be yours

It could be to Maul, or Sidious or the Galaxy at large but I think that’s the song that suits her. I may of course change my mind but we’ll see.

Any chance we can get hints on how she’s gonna be with Ezra in Rebels?

Gooood question! I know they will have to meet, but also Rebels era is not going to be the same for Maul as it is in the show. There will be a lot of differences. Without any spoilers, I think she will find this little Jedi very interesting. I can tell you that she will find C1-10P (chopper) very very fun.

I remember seeing an Art of Zaiya dancing, and to me it really looked like a Tribal Fusion Bellydance sort of dance since I'm a dancer of that style myself, and I was wondering if you had any specific song in mind for Zaiya dancing. I'm always looking for new music to dance to 👀

You are correct! That was indeed my inspirations when I was researching the dancing and the way I thought the Nightsisters would move. One video I watched was this one: https://youtu.be/XWDRdJ6O4cY

I included the link for those that may not know exactly what Tribal Fusion is, but this is more or less my inspiration, I don’t know if it is a specific song I can share, but I do have the playlist that might have some fun tunes on it there.

How did you come up with Zaiya’s character and design?

This is similar to the above questions but I will elaborate. For Zaiya I looked at the Nightsisters and knew she would have to look like them, but I also wanted her to be a bit different - hence the Mandalorian father - so Zaiya has a more solid frame and muscle and a tummy, I always include that when I draw her. I also liked the idea of tattoos over the eyes and I had seen a makeup look with an upper black lip and I loved how expressive it was. I wanted her to stand out like Maul does, but in her own way. The eye was something that I thought of after seeing that one episode of Rebels where Maul drinks the Nightsister potion. The imagery was so cool and I took elements of what was already there in the lore of Star Wars. I may have also taken a little inspiration from Danerys from Game of Thrones with the way she carries herself.

The braids were inspired from Nordic tradition and the women in good standing in the society and have intricate lore about their hair. Also Danerys had some cool braids too, so I was definitely inspired.

Thank you

For those of you still reading, thank you! I cannot say it enough! Thank you, thank you!

I wanted to go into a bit more detail about the origins of this fic.

I had never seen Clone Wars until about 2018/2019 and a boyfriend had me watch it. I was liking it alright… then the Maul episodes happened. And he talked. He had like two or three lines in the Phantom Menace. It wasn’t until I heard Sam Witwer’s buttery voice and Maul in that very pretty animation that my brain decided I was going to latch onto it and make it part of my personality.

In 2020 that relationship fell apart and I moved out on my own for the first time in about 15 years.

I was in a bit of an odd space. As I mentioned above, a few things had to align and one of them was my decision to stop taking medication. It was a trial period of six weeks initially to see how I felt about it. It was around then that I began writing. I had the time as I was only working part time and I spent the rest of the time planning, thinking and just pouring my reviving creativity into this.

I have never had a project that I have done for so long before. Usually I would write other stories and then it would trickle off, and the passion would wane. With this however, it just kept going.

I poured my life into it, my trauma and everything that hurt. But apparently I made Zaiya likeable. Not just to the characters, but to you. All of you that keep reading to find out what angsty or wholesome thing she might do next.

This has given me so much validity, acceptance and just a sense of love that you guys all like my work. You like the ideas I put on the page, even with the typos, the errors that crop up and my nonsensical rambling in the notes.

So, sincerely, to all of you. Thank you. Here’s to another 100 chapters!

Get ready for Chapter 100 to drop! You are all in for a treat! I saved the tasty spiciness for the special

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