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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month

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Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed.

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge.

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage.

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

#sherlock holmes #enola holmes #dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #unraveled

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nekronyancer · 9 months

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Masked man that lives in my head rent free²

I was gonna draw some more baby cardi but then.....yeah....

Vessel wip for you, please accept my humble offering 🫴

#fanart #sleep token #sleep token vessel #vessel #sleep #sleep token band #art #artists on tumblr #digital art #artwork

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mimithealpaca · 5 days

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dragons make the best pillows (WIP)

a break from the sad-dadcchan and son.

anyways, i was gonna save this 'til i actually finished it as a print but like. look. i just had to. yesterday was her debut in the anime and aaaaaaaah she's perfection and you know marcille feels the same.

also it's lesbian visibility week, right? so. yeah. there. here is my contribution to the lesbians. i hope you wlws will accept this humble offering. please give it love so it will actually blossom into a print THAT I WANT BECAUSE I NEED IT

#dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #faligon #falin touden #marcille #falin x marcille #farcille #wip #paint tool sai #lesbians...#falin's tatas #I'M SORRY BUT THEY LOOK SO FLUFFY AND NICE TO REST YOUR HEAD ON #kinda sorta dungeon meshi spoilers

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tare-anime · 7 months

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Royal Guard AU (wip)

There's a Royal AU for TwiYor week @twiyorbase, and I've had this wip for quite some time now, and I don't know when I'll finish it.

So, please accept this humble 'will be chapter 1 of someday will be finished fic'

Inspired by the amazing @mochidoodle Royal Guard AU art. (not at all part of their AU).

Summary:

Prince Loid Forger of Westalis loves to go undercover and blend with his people to gain information. To ensure his safety during his late-night shenanigans, Westalis' General of Royal Knights assigns him a personal bodyguard. Unbeknownst to them, this personal bodyguard also has her own personal mission.

(AO3)

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"Your Highness. This is Ms. Yor Roseate. She is to be assigned as your personal bodyguard starting today."

Prince Loid Forger raises his brows as he looks up from the thick tomes in front of him. "And why do you think I need a personal bodyguard, Ms. Sherwood?"

The red-haired General of the Royal Knights' brow furrows. "I think you know full well of the reason."

Loid looks directly at her eyes. "I'm afraid I do not. Please enlighten me?"

Instead of backing down, the older woman hardens her looks. "Do you really want me to spell it to you?"

He sighs in defeat.

He should've known better than to challenge their Royal Knights General, who is also his personal trainer and has been with him since they were young.

Of course, the woman would know his nighttime shenanigans. And even though he had tried his best to cover his most recent injury (he was so sure he had done it secretly), those things do not escape Sylvia's observation.

"You won't tell Father, will you?"

The red-haired woman smirks. "Are you questioning my diplomatic ability?"

He chuckles, "No. Of course not." And then he mutters, "I still value my life after all."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!!" He stands up and comes closer. "So, any special reason for assigning Ms. Roseate as my personal bodyguard? Why don't you yourself be one?"

He saw the general gesture at the stiff woman beside her. "She might be the newest recruit, but she happens to be the strongest and most talented."

"Newest recruit?"

"Mhmm. But I highly suggest you not underestimate her, lest you want to taste her wrath."

Loid doesn't like the smug face of his martial arts mentor.

There must be a hidden agenda that Sylvia is scheming.

He plans to uncover that along the way.

The man then focuses on the dark-haired woman that stand in perfect stance ever since she is introduced.

Dark long hair, red eyes, and a lean figure.

What interests him most is her unique lean rapier-like swords that rest at her hip.

Double swords? Interesting….

"Well then. It's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Roseate."

"The honor is mine, Your Highness." He sees her bow.

Mmm… very polite. Let's see how long until she asks to be replaced.

"And I trust you'll be on your best behavior, Your Highness? Please do not underestimate the 'recent' rumors."

Darn it! Loid is sure that he has suppressed the smirk.

"Of course, Ms. Sherwood. You can count on me for that."

The look that Sylvia gives him tells that she doesn't believe every single word that he says.

Loid just smiles politely.

She knows me too well.

It is the first day that Yor is officially on duty as crowned Prince Loid Forger Henderson's personal bodyguard.

And she feels nervous.

No, she doesn't think that her skills are under-standard.

She has passed General Sherwood's tests with flying colors.

It's the responsibility that unnerves her.

If something bad happens to His Highness, then aside from that her head will be on the line, it will soil her reputation.

And her mission.

She simply cannot allow that to happen.

So, she makes sure to stay close to His Highness and observe her surroundings thoroughly.

The day's tasks are part of Prince Loid's daily routines as crowned prince. He goes around villages, listening to the farmers' problems and giving advice to solve them and also taking notes for things the palace has to intervene to make sure they have a good harvest in upcoming months.

In other places, he monitors the progress of their new harbor, designed to make sure their fish products can be packed and distributed to wider areas, one of the most promising export commodities of Westalis.

On the way, he always returns the greetings of his subjects.

Yor often hear about the humbleness of the Prince of Westalis. But to witness said act by her very own eyes is certainly a different experience.

Seeing how the people of Westalia clearly love the Prince, and how he reciprocates each one of greetings is a bit overwhelming for her.

There's a certain pang of alien emotion bubbling in her chest.

When was the last time I felt envious of other people?

She squashes the feeling by refocusing on her task.

The amount of people gathering so close to him can mean danger.

What if someone with bad intentions was among these people and was waiting for a chance to harm the Prince?

So she better do her job properly and observe every small movement of the people, the environment, and every possible place for any surprise attack.

Thankfully, no incident occurred that day until they returned to the palace.

Arriving back at the palace, Loid then sits in his room and starts to read, and sign paperwork.

All the time, his newly assigned personal bodyguard sticks to his side, like what a usual bodyguard does.

However, Loid's keen observation noticed how Ms. Roseate many times look tense and glaring at his surroundings.

And she is still doing it now. He muses.

"Are you always this stiff, Ms. Roseate?"

He raises his brow when he sees her start.

She immediately bows "Apologies, Your Highness."

Loid chuckles and waves his hand. "Relax, will you? This is the last of my tasks for the day by the way. You are dismissed."

Yor blinks and answers, "I am sorry Your Highness. Ms. Sherwood assigned me to be at your side 24/7."

Loid's eyebrows arch, "24/7? Must you stay by my side even when I'm doing my business at the loo?"

Face immediately flushes, he hears Yor stammers, "O-Of course I'll be waiting outside, Sir…. I mean, Your Highness."

Loid guffaws. "That would be unnecessary. Sylvia can be too paranoid sometimes. But rest assured. Nothing bad will happen inside the palace. You may rest."

He gives her his best reassuring smile which always manages to convince everyone.

It looks like she is included.

He sees her fidgeting for a moment before finally Yor bows and retreats from his room.

Loid smirks triumphantly.

It is time to leave this confined palace and continue his nighttime routine.

After applying the fake mustache and goatee, clad in his cloak, Loid, or now known as Twilight, sneaks out of the palace through a secret passage.

The first place he always visits is The Frizz Tavern.

The place may be reeking of tobacco smells and alcohol, but people always gather there and so are information and rumors.

Today is no different.

He comes in and takes his seat at the corner of the bar. Right beside a curly-haired man, who once again is seen trying to woo the waiter and failing.

Slapping his shoulder, Twilight greets him. "Yo, Frankie. Still trying?"

The shorter man grumbles, "Shut it! If only you would share one or two of your persona with me, you stingy bastard!"

"It's not right to pursue women through deception, Frankie."

"You're one to talk!" Frankie grumbles, "Who is she?"

Twilight raises one eyebrow, "Who's what?"

Frankie places his chin in his palm and points past Twilight, "Her of course, who else?"

Puzzled, Twilight twirls on his chair and almost jumps from it in surprise.

"Good evening." The calm and soft voice of Yor Roseate greets him.

Thankfully she is wearing a massive cloak that covers her from head to toe, hiding her royal guard uniform, and a mask that hides half of her face.

But that doesn't answer his question, so he whispers, "What are you doing, here?!"

"I'm following my order from Ms. She-...."

Twilight immediately clamps her mouth and whispers, "No no no! Not here!"

Frankie peeks from his shoulder and says, " So you do know her. Is she another of your-..."

Twilight doesn't let him finish as he abruptly grabs Yor's wrist and briskly walks out from the tavern's back door.

After making sure that they are alone, Twilight starts his questions, "How do you know where to find me?"

"I'm following Your Highness."

Following him? From the palace? But he didn't feel anyone's presence.

He presses on, "Nobody should know I left the palace."

"I've been following you since you left the room."

Twilight blinks, "But I went through…." He abruptly stops himself lest he blurts his secret.

"That passage is indeed very cleverly built, as expected from Your Highness. But as Ms. Sherwood said it is-...."

He lifts his hand to stop her, "Wait wait….. Sylvia knows about that??!!"

The woman in front of him shrugs, "It's not that hard to find."

Twilight faces faults.

And suddenly Sylvia's warning rings in his mind: do not underestimate her.

Several weeks prior

“You are to go on a solo mission in a faraway place. I wish you to keep up your impeccable performance and not put shame on our country.”

Yor bows her head deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Go. And make our country proud.”

Once again Yor bows her head and turns to leave the majestic throne room.

“Oh, and Yor…”

She stops and turns to face the King of Ostania.

She notices how His Majesty’s face softens a fraction as he whispers, “Please be careful.”

Yor smiles. “I will… Father.”

She then continues to pack her belongings and immediately departs to the kingdom of the West.

#spy x family #yor forger #loid forger #twiyor #twiyormonth #royal guard AU #action #comedy #wip #sxf fic #sxf fanfic #sxf wip

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insertmeaningfulusername · 14 days

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!!!🤩🤩! If you’re still doing the WIP meme, I’d love to know more of:

ordomaze sparring

echofives get a tooka

But tbh everything sounds great on the list!!! thank you!! 🥳🥳👀

Thank you for the ask, dear, and apologies for the late answer!! Life just won't stop being too busy :')

Both those WIPs were mentioned in previous asks already (OrdoMaze sparring and EchoFives getting a tooka) BUT thanks to you the former isn't a WIP anymore because your ask made me look at it and then suddenly - boom! - it was finished!! Still needs to be edited, tagged, titled, summarised and posted though 😌 In the meantime please accept this humble snippet:

When Maze hooks a foot behind his ankle, Ordo goes down in the most controlled, measured way he can manage. He meets the mat with a grunt and pulls Maze along with his momentum, hoping to get him on his back, Maze’s neck between his arms or knees. He doesn’t. Maze twists again, quick and slippery and always on the move, kicks out, and then his legs are around Ordo’s shoulders, ankle hooking over ankle and thighs closing around Ordo’s head. Osik. Their audience is whistling and cheering, but Maze is eerily still as he squeezes, muscles bulging on either side of Ordo’s face. Distantly, Ordo feels his body react – shoulders tensing up, ice in his veins, hands grappling for purchase on the mat. He wrenches them out of the useless panic and into action, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh at the back of Maze’s knees as he tries to dislodge the hold on his head, around his shoulders. It’s useless. Maze has his ankles hooked firmly together, his muscles like beskar when Ordo tries to get them to budge. Oddly, Maze’s voice is strained with heavy breathing when he asks, “Do you yield?”

#ask #ordomaze #cloneshipping #my writing #ordo's actually quite happy about getting his head crushed between maze's thighs there's just. the problem of him being very prideful lmfao

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dawnbreakersgaze · 4 days

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Hey you 5 people that remember and also shared my love of Dr. Greyson??

Well I started to paint him! I mean it's gonna take me 800 years to finish him (so watch out for naked jellyfish and sharks that eat grass or whatever Raf's dramatic ass said) so please, accept this humble WIP as a token of my gratitude for loving this man as much as I do, and hopefully Papergames (or maybe Infold who will pass on the word) will hear our pleas and GIVE US HIS FAAACE

Also Grey has freckles you can't change my mind.

#lnds #love and deepspace #lads #l&ds #love & deepspace #love and deep space #dr. greyson #lnds dr. greyson #zayne #art of kay

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kazraza · 18 days

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Omg I‘m so excited for you new fic, you can‘t even imagine <3 I love, love, love your writing and the universe you build so much and I can‘t wait to meet Link and Zelda again in this third installment :‘) Can you tell us a tiny bit about it? Does it take place during or after totk? Is it canon divergent? I‘m just happy, please don‘t take this as me pressuring you or anything, take as long as you need.

omg thank you so much!!! that means so much to me!!

YES i would love to talk about my fic lmaooo. it takes place during totk with some flashbacks to pre-totk/post-resonance. part one is going to follow zelda's journey in ancient hyrule and part 2 will be centered on link and the sages.

it is canon compliant--but i'm gonna be adding SO MUCH of my own flavor and worldbuilding to it. ngl i kinda went crazy with the lore 😂 might have to cut some of it on the second draft we'll see..... also i realize probably no one wants a blow-by-blow of the events that happen when you just play the game so i'm gonna try my hardest to make it something different and special!

anyway ty for the ask!! if you are still interested in reading more please accept a humble wip from ch 3..... under the cut hehe....

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Dusk has fallen by the time they reach Woodland Stable, blanketing the trees in dim blue light. Link helps her from her mount, his hands lingering at her waist as he steadies her, then leads their horses to the stables. Zelda tucks her long hair behind her ear and looks around. A deck overlooks a large pond, and across the still water she sees the bright blue glow of a shrine.

Link returns to her side, following her gaze. “Want to go check it out?” he asks.

“Sure,” she says, even though she really has no interest in the shrine.

But as it turns out, neither does Link.

He presses her against the composite metal wall, the grooved designs digging into her back. Link’s mouth is hot against her neck, and the trees muffle most of the sounds of her gasps, and the evening wildlife swallows the rest.

Two long weeks, and she’s forgotten what it’s like to have Link’s hands on her.

She threads her fingers through his hair, undoing his ponytail. The light from the shrine floods his features, reflecting in his eyes when he fixes her with a gaze that arrests her where she stands.

“I missed you,” Link breathes, touching his forehead against hers.

“We’ve been by each other’s sides this whole time,” she says, giggling.

“I missed this.”

Zelda grins. “Me too.”

He grabs her by her thighs and lifts her up, holding her against the shrine, and she wraps her legs around him. His lips are on hers and he tastes the way a stormcloud feels, like something dangerous, something wild.

“Zelda,” he says, a whisper against her throat, and she responds with his name, again and again, her fingers twisting in his hair, nails raking across the nape of his beautiful neck. “Zelda,” he says again, and it’s more insistent this time, a word that demands attention, and he isn’t kissing her anymore.

“Yes?” she says, breathless, distracted.

His eyes are dark and glassy, but they’re not looking at her. She can barely see his features in the dimness, but he seems to be looking behind her.

Hold on, that’s not right. She could clearly see his face just a moment ago, lit by the shrine’s blue glow.

He realizes what it is, what’s different and what’s wrong, at the same time she does. She unwinds her legs from around his waist and he lowers her gently to the ground. It’s dark, completely dark.

The shrine is no longer lit.

#prelude #zelink fic #zelink #botw #totk

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