I'm your Villain

Thank you so much for your feedback! I agree that Ghirahim might seem less fabulous in AU because he can't undress with a shrug and throw diamond daggers around – I'll still try to make up for that. It's even lovelier if people read it although they don't like AU that much.

/

If I could laugh I'd love you

If I could smile at anything you said

We could be laughing lovers:

I think you'd prefer to be miserable instead…

(Franz Ferdinand, 'I'm your Villain')

/

It was not like Ghirahim had never been threatened before.

People, who knew about his tendency to write something nasty, not only because it pleased his readers, but because it pleased him, tried that once in a while. Very foolish indeed, because they were convinced that he needed their cooperation to finish an article. In the era of free media, he could make up whatever he liked and get away with it.

However, faking an interview with Link was not happening – he was about the only case where that would not have been credible. Reporters had tried to do this for years now, and the public was tired of cheap fantasy.

Being threatened physically with a weapon (sort of) was refreshingly new to Ghirahim. Still, he would have preferred to be confronted with something more… impressive. Like an axe, or a rapier. At least one of those old-fashioned shotguns. Not a pitchfork that was likely used to clean out the stable.

Ghirahim resisted the urge to back off. He was fairly sure that the pitchfork wasn't going to get rammed into his chest anytime soon, but he wasn't dying to get that dirt onto his white bodysuit. It was customized for him only. Finally, he tore his eyes off the tool and smiled.

At least, he had found Jungle Boy. There was no doubt that the man holding the pitchfork was Link.

Ghirahim had last seen him in person wearing a tux at a party where he'd looked like a teenager that had accidentally stumbled in from his Prom and now searched for the restrooms so he could hide. He had always seemed annoyingly young, self-conscious and in desperate need for someone who either straightened his tie or patted his head.

Three years from that, Ghirahim faced a man in simple, worn gear whose expression gave away nothing. The sandy blonde hair was untidy and so horribly cut it made Ghirahim shudder. And yet, there was no mistaking that the blue eyes, cold and hard and smooth as colored glass, belonged to an adult.

He had built up nicely, too. His shoulders were no longer slumped as if to protect himself from anyone coming too close, and his calloused hands were tightly gripping the handle of the pitchfork. Ghirahim would have preferred him to hold onto something else – a flower bouquet, maybe, or even better, a cup of tea. He would have liked some.

Oh, this hair! It wasn't simply not fab, it was… horrendous. Awful. Despicable! Link probably never bothered to visit a coiffeur and instead cut his hair himself. Or he laid his head under a lawnmower to achieve this fascinating lack of style. Except he certainly did not have a lawnmower, he either used a sickle or let his disgusting horse do the work. Those strands might as well have been chewed off.

Ghirahim cleared his throat. Link had been visited by countless reporters from all over Hyrule – none like the Demon Lord, of course, but he probably had sufficient experience with people stepping onto his property and introducing themselves as his soulmates. So it was absolutely vital to push all the right buttons in the first moment.

Of course, Ghirahim had already prepared his speech. Well-placed words, assisted by his stunning appearance, would lower that offensive pitchfork soon enough. Ghirahim tried not to stare at Link's hair and offered him a charming smile. Damn, that hair! Never mind. He had to use his best silky voice for this.

Lovely Link, you have utterly no idea how overjoyed I am to tell you that…

"Your hair needs cutting."

Ghirahim almost looked around to search for the source of this remark. Because there was frankly no way that he had just blurted that out.

He'd never. He was a professional. Professionals never spoke their mind during work, so these words could not have slipped from his mouth.

Apparently they had, for Link's eyes became even cooler. Now that Ghirahim gave it a thought, the hermit's unmoving posture might have been a result of bewilderment for Ghirahim's unique makeup and gray powder rather than an invitation to explain himself.

Ghirahim was quick to react. So he had made a fauxpas, but it was not like Link would tell anyone. A benefit of that vow of silence – that thing was becoming more and more convenient by minute.

"Just joking."

Ghirahim smiled sweetly, his white teeth flashed between his lips. It was an edged smile, as menacing as Link's pitchfork. Unfortunately, that guy seemed to be wearing a chainmail under his clothes, easily deflecting that smile. He thrust his tool forward, and this time, Ghirahim had to lean back his torso to evade being touched by the dirty teeth; he had excellent control of his body, keeping his balance without swaying and conserving his smile nonetheless. Though Link's stare did not drop to watch the supple work of Ghirahim's muscles beneath the white lycra, and that was usually the least the Demon Lord expected.

This was getting personal. Ghirahim did not approve of people who denied his exquisite physique the admiration it deserved. They failed to see that this was fab.

"Would you mind sparing a few minutes for me? I'd like to-"

The pitchfork targeted his chest again. For a moment, Ghirahim forgot about his revulsion and knocked the iron head away, glaring at Link. "- introduce myself, so we can have-" Link grimly narrowed his eyes, silently negating already. "-an amiable little chat." Ghirahim wasn't intimidated by the behavior of his host. What was the worst that could happen? Link surely would not call the police, or the kind of local militia, unless he used smoke signals. And Ghirahim would eat his hat if this guy even knew what a cell phone was (On the second thought, he'd rather not. Whoever invented these figures of speech obviously had a hard-on for indigestions).

Link regarded him coolly, without a spark of recognition. He had to be the only erect being on two legs in all Hyrule that never read SkySe and was therefore unfamiliar with the striking Ghirahim and his acidic way of placing words. Link's ignorance was bliss and curse at a time.

Ghirahim tapped his hand briskly against his firm thigh and brushed back his dusty-white hair.

"Charmed to meet you, Link… My name is Ghirahim. Mind the H."

Link didn't seem to mind it. He completely lacked any sort of reaction; his eyes possessed the sharpness of a deactivated robot, seeing, but not responding because the key stimulus, as Ghirahim referred it, was missing.

It pissed him off. Even more than this filthy place, the unadulterated kitsch and the fact that he had touched this pitchfork and probably rubbed off some of the, uh, coating.

The whole of Link made him sick with anger.

"You see, I was wondering about you book, the third one that never came. What was it called again?" Ghirahim didn't waste his time on waiting for Link to reply, he took his blackberry from his white leather belt (he could not have pockets on his jeans, and truth to be told, there was nothing quite like an unshaped bulge if you wanted to ruin a nice pair of legs). His assistant had compiled a set of notes about Link's work and his interviews, so he was prepared for talking about something that he had not concerned himself with before. The perks of being a boss. And of not caring whether his underlings liked him.

"Ah, yes, Sky Child, that's what you said about the title."

If Link wasn't moving anywhere – and apparently, he was just waiting for Ghirahim to vanish, foolish as that would be – then they were taking this outside like real men. And yes, Ghirahim was a real man. Since when could anyone dress like him and look captivating if he didn't have it in him?

He fought back the tingling of anger from his voice, once more giving Link his full attention.

"I was always wondering how you'd get there, since a child requires pregnancy, and frankly, it never looked to be like your protagonist and his non-emancipated princess were getting anywhere close to that. I mean, it's crucial to actually fuck the chick, if you know what I mean, it doesn't work any other way. Though if a kiss is enough to knock her up, your hero should seriously consider a paternity test, or he'll be stuck with a demon brat for…"

Ghirahim's tone carried nothing but good-natured thoughtlessness. His lips curled into an even happier smile when the spark of wrath finally ignited behind Link's glassy eyes, sending up a pleasant shiver down Ghirahim's spine. He had overpowered Link's countenance, discovering the soft spot and exploiting it. There was nothing he loved quite as much as that. People were vulnerable as long as they allowed themselves strong emotions, and Ghirahim had known that this primitive provocation would be enough.

Because authors were always touchy about their characters, but you didn't have to be a genius to see that the subject of copulation did not actually aim at a fictitious princess, rather a very real woman…

Link stared at him, his full and strangely masculine mouth pressed together so tightly that it became a thin, colorless line. His hands gripped the farm tool until his knuckles turned into a blotchy short of white. Ghirahim could practically feel the tension of every muscle in that body.

Go ahead, try plunging that toy into my throat – you won't. You'll feel nice and sorry and absolutely terrible afterwards. He smiled lazily. And then we'll talk.

The intensity of Link's still contained wrath would make anyone step back. It was not a question of bravado, it was reason.

Reason never filled Ghirahim's jaded heart with this rare excitement. He licked his lips, deciding that he needed a last straw to make that pent-up anger burst. Interview forgotten, he only cared about that distinctive SNAP.

"I'm sure you know how to bang a girl? It's all about that vertical smile under her skirts and nothin' 'bout slaying spiders, I can assure you. Though I did wonder how a book could sell this good without any sex. Let me guess… Your darling heroes weren't married?"

Link lifted the pitchfork in a choppy motion, his breaths seemed to heave his broad shoulders like a steam-engine on full power. Ghirahim tensed, determined to jump back as soon as the pitchfork came down on him, and not a second earlier.

Link averted his eyes and rammed the tool into the soft, dark earth, burying the entire head. He jerkily turned away and walked towards the stable, his offensive sandy hair rocking gently, triumphantly with each step.

Ghirahim blinked uncomprehendingly at the pitchfork. The grass where Link had stood was starting to straighten again, erasing his presence. For the first time in a while, Ghirahim was baffled. Perplexed. Stunned. His mind was blank.

This guy, this primate, had refused him the satisfaction to see him lose his temper, to see him fume and rampage, to hear his petty screeching and witness pathetic expressions of rage.

When someone had pissed on the grave of his fiancée, he had simply walked away.

Ghirahim could not dwell on the fact that nobody had ever acted like this around him – even if people felt indifferent about something, they worked themselves into fits since they could not bear to seem coldhearted. He had let the little farmer get away, an idiotic mistake to begin with, and betrayed that he had been affected. Ghirahim couldn't believe that he had been such an amateur. With an aggravated flick of his hair, he marched towards the stable.

The building was small and sturdy, dust danced in the rays of sun that fell through the crown glass of the windows. The air smelled sweetly of hay, and since the horse was probably kept outside during this time of the year, there was only the oily scent of leather.

More kitsch. Mercy! Ghirahim could already feel the itching in his nose that threatened to create an unesthetic sneeze. He hated hay, and this smell would stick to him until the next hot bath.

Link was not here, but a door, large enough for a horse, connected the area around the house to a paddock. Admittedly, Ghirahim was not fond of animals at all… The thought of running into the filthy brute that left loads of shit lying around was disgustingly unfabulous. He could stand the hermit with his tools, but it would take more to confront Link with his organic tractor around.

Personally, Ghirahim blamed his parents for this. Though that wasn't helping right now.

"Don't be a prima donna, Link… It's what my readers want to know. As the author, that should be your concern, right?", he called after Link, although he had not spotted the man yet.

The Demon Lord would have bet money that there was a tightly locked chastity belt beneath Link's clothes, for all the fuss he made because of that small implication about sex. Did he even know that his haystack looked like the living dream of a chick-lit-author? Ghirahim almost expected a ruffled groom to crawl out of that thing any minute now.

There was no helping it. Unless Link had hidden in that haystack (which Ghirahim was not touching, the stems would forever stick to his clothes) or under some kind of trapdoor, he had probably gone outside. The paddock.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Rupee. Whatever.

Ghirahim waded into the lush grass, banning all thoughts of dirt, insects and… complementary colors.

"Enough playing around, we'll settle this like-" Real men? Hardly! "-grownups."

He spotted the hideous horse standing peacefully next to the stable, nibbling on some yellow flower that might have been a hawkbit. Ghirahim didn't care for botanic, he just eyed the brown beast warily and took another step. Link was nowhere to be seen.

"Come on, tomboy. You'll find conversing with me less agonizing than you think…" It took some effort to drop his voice into that husky tone that made men shift in their seats. Ghirahim didn't feel like flirting; he felt like seeing Link come undone, in both ways possible and in a very strict order. That child insisted on playing around with the Demon Lord.

And he was so ruining his boots.

"Link, I'll be seriously cheerless if you don't-"

Suddenly, the horse gave a snort and pranced. Ghirahim whirled around, subtle fears grasping him. He never liked animals, animals never liked him, he had always hated big animals and big animals had always…

Ghirahim gasped, anger welling up when Link expertly nudged his knees against the flanks of the horse. He must have used the oldest of tricks, climbing up the roof of the stable, waiting for Ghirahim to pass and then jumping onto his getaway vehicle. It was an obvious question why Ghirahim had not seen him up there, and the answer was just as embarrassing. He'd been watching out for the horse and that stupid flower, both very high on the not-fab-list.

Link turned the horse without using a harness or holding onto the mane. He kicked the beast slightly, urging it to break into a gallop.

And there was only one direction open if he wasn't going to crash his face into the lintel of the stable door like the idiot he was.

Ghirahim experienced a sudden burst of primal fear, standing in the way of a creature that likely weighed more than ten times as much as him and build up an impressive speed within the small distance. Without thinking at all, he threw himself sideways into the grass to avoid being stamped to the ground.

He felt the sharp draft of air, smelled the animalistic scent that carried an odd note of coconut as the horse galloped past him. The soft grass tingled his skin as adrenaline rushed through his system. The archaic mechanism in his head told him 'health damage prevented' and had the nerve to release endorphins of relief.

Ghirahim was quick at his feet, but not quick enough. He barely saw how Link ducked his head to the neck of the horse when it jumped over the fence and disappeared into the woods, the dull beating of hooves soon fading.

Ghirahim stood on the paddock, staring after Link, then raising his hands. Brown and green stained the front of his body, both his clothing and skin, and a small bruise was forming where he had caught himself and pressed a small, pointy stone into his palm.

A strand of his accurately styled hair slowly slipped from its position, gliding across Ghirahim's cheek like a consoling caress.

It was eerily quiet.

/

It took long minutes until the shaking stopped. Ghirahim could not, would not, debase himself by throwing a fit of rage, yet the temptation was strong. And even worse because there was no one he could take his anger out on.

Eventually, the heavy buzzing of blood in his ears subsided, his calm returned. There was a good side to this, really – he hadn't known that his control over his temper had weakened, it was a lucky thing that he had only been out here in Neverland with Peter Pan and his fucking fairy horse.

Ghirahim growled throatily and ditched the positive-thinking. He should have never taken that training course, but if it was a trend, what could he do.

Link would regret his infantile prank soon enough. Until then, Ghirahim could at least unhurriedly take photos of the estate. He briefly considered waiting for Link, however, he found it unbearable to meet him in these stained clothes, and Ghirahim still had to drive over to the village in order to move into the room he had rented. Besides, there was no way of telling when He-Man would return. Link looked like the type of self-made-barbarian who stayed in the wilderness for days and ate squirrels and roots.

It would be a problem if he did. For the first time, Ghirahim was starting to doubt whether this whole week was actually enough time.

The wind whispered ominously in the wall of trees that had swallowed horse and rider.

/

Ghirahim officially hated the countryside.

He had been relieved to find out that at least one of these villagers had shown the proper human greed, making use of the fact that there would always be visitors as long as Link wasn't dead or moved away. The Lumpy Pumpkin was the only hotel around, and Ghirahim had known he wouldn't like it, he just hated camping even more.

He hadn't known how little he'd actually like it.

The hotel was obviously also the local saloon. There was no other word to describe that racket in the taproom, a noise that followed Ghirahim up the stairs and to his room. The girl accompanying him was either deaf, or she had the positive-thinking to the core. She had introduced herself as Kina and turned out to be an annoyingly nice person – normally the kind you could easily take advantage of, unfortunately, it required acting annoyingly nice as well.

Ghirahim had tried, but it turned out to be incredibly difficult after Kina readily rattled off the Pumpkin's menu. Woodcutters seemed to be regular customers around here; Ghirahim had never seen a menu that contained that many nastily fatty dishes. That stuff would clog his arteries even before he swallowed it.

Kina frowned at him for skipping dinner, and Ghirahim swore to himself that this greasy grub was not ever going down his throat.

The room turned out to be rustic and relatively clean, the walls proved to be too thin to keep out the noise. The flower-filled wallpapers were hurting Ghirahim's eyes, and he glared at them when Kina had finally left, probably to gossip with her fellow idiots about the new intruder. Ghirahim would have to deal with them since they knew more about Link's habits – just not today.

He took off his boots and gingerly sat down on the bed, rolling his eyes when it creaked. He didn't need that softporn-sound now, thank you very much. He would have some tea and go over the photos that he had taken so far.

The farm house had one-way-glass in its windows, so Ghirahim hadn't been able to sneak a peek. He had walked around the building, discovering a small fruit and vegetable garden, a cat dozing in the sun (Ghirahim had avoided it before it could stick its pesky hair to his clothes), an empty washing line and an old hammock. The only furniture outside was a small wooden table with two chairs.

Ghirahim had carefully captured the last theme. For someone as inhospitable as Link, it seemed strange to put up a chair for someone else. When Ghirahim had gotten a closer look at the stable, he had discovered a small tag on the box of the horse that read Epona.

There was only one horse and only one person tending to it, so it was completely unnecessary to label it. And there was no use for a second chair, unless Link put his feet on it. Perhaps there was nothing to it – it could be a coincidence.

But Ghirahim couldn't shake off the feeling that the house was waiting for someone.

Well… nice and sappy, Link certainly delivered a brilliant performance, someone should cast him to star in one of his own films. Ghirahim wasn't going to think about this. He used the lexicon on his blackberry for the maybe third time in years to look up Epona; as it turned out, it was the Celtic goddess of fertility as well as the Roman goddess of horses. The chick was pretty tied-up, it seemed.

It wasn't all that much for the first day, he had to admit. And this… unforeseen occurrence…

It would be long days. But that did not mean they would not be successful.