Violator

A/N: Guys, guys, guys! … Look at this? If you wanna relive Day Three again, have a look at the wonderful fanart by MrMyshka: .com/albums/d124/karlarei2003/gurrrl .png

Also: we are drawing close to the end. Not. The plan for a sequel came up while writing, and it piled up quite a lot of ideas. I can't be precise yet; it's just that both writing and getting in touch with your reactions and reviews was too much fun to simply end the adventure – and I hate endings in general.

Sorry, Ghirahim, no peace for you, not by a long shot. No pun intended.

/

Why do I keep dreaming

You're here to save me?

Violator, violate me…

(Son Of Rust, 'Violator')

/

"So, have you decided yet?"

Ghirahim had been brooding over his notepad, and the sudden interjection interrupted his thoughts. He spared Kina an unfriendly look; he was currently writing down the first multiple-choice-interview of his life (ticking off boxes was fairly easy even for Link), and that needed his full concentration. It would probably serve to annoy Link, but if that made him take the pencil himself and to a proper interview, it was all the better.

"I thought my breakfast habits weren't up for discussion any longer."

Kina frowned politely. "You haven't spoken about it since you came here."

"About what?" Ghirahim was rapidly losing patience. Why was this girl underemployed enough to stand here and chat with him? If he had to put up with her cockblocked boyfriend again, he'd be late – and he already was, because he had overslept for a bit. It usually didn't happen to him, Link was obviously rubbing off. Kind of. At least, he had most of the porch to himself now, before the thought of 'rubbing' could take root.

"You know what." Kina looked around as if she expected the few other guests to eavesdrop on them. "Nobody has said anything."

Then why does this feel like I've dropped a brick and missed your head, girl?

Ghirahim rubbed his eyes, careful to not smear his makeup, and forced a smile. "Regrettably, I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about." And he hated that.

Kina eyed him with confusion, then she tucked her tray under her arm. "Just a moment."

I can't wait. Secretiveness, you gotta love it.

Kina was back quite fast, holding a newspaper in her hand. Ghirahim would have recognized the company logo and the blue letters at the front page anywhere – probably everyone in Hyrule knew what the front page of Skyward Serenade looked like. A short look at the top of the page told him that this was an outdated issue, several days old in fact. Almost a week.

"Well, you… said it yourself, so we were sure that was reason you're here…" Kina's words were making less sense by the second. Ghirahim gave up on being nice for now.

"What the hell are you driveling about?"

Kina opened the newspaper and leafed through, turning some pages. Three pages, to be exact. Ghirahim lifted his eyebrows. That was where his column was, so why did he need to see that? And why was there in this relatively new issue-

"You see? You wanted a change of scenery to pick back up, and when you turned up here…" Kina seemed to be starting to feel uneasy, she folded the newspaper and help the lavender-tinted page out to Ghirahim, nervously tugging at one of her brown locks. "You said that you were interested in, well, country-flair."

"Why would I?", Ghirahim snapped and glared at the so familiar design. He spotted a photo of himself, taken in Hyrule City. Though he was smiling absent-mindedly into the camera, Ghirahim didn't remember allowing to have the picture taken, and as long as he was working on this story, Simply Fab would of course be taking a break.

How could this newspaper be younger than a week? Ghirahim felt a cold, heavy chunk of lead slowly sinking in his stomach as his brain grasped for an explanation. He snatched the paper from Kina's hands, and for a strange moment, their eyes locked, both of them sharing confusion and uncertainty.

The letters blurred, words seemed to sense his upcoming panic and run into smears of ink. They had not been written by him – Ghirahim recognized the style, the elaborate phrasing, the photo that looked like he was fully aware of someone holding the camera.

But it hadn't been him. It was someone expertly copying his working methods. Just for which purpose?

Kina sounded questioning when she said: "You wrote it. You're dropping out of business. For an undetermined amount of ti-"

Ghirahim slammed the newspaper onto the table, crumpling the colorful paper and making Kina flinch in shock. The few guests on the porch looked over at them, Ghirahim felt their attention like spotlights blinding him. His cheeks turned hot and then cold again, gears in his brain began to turn, creaking, as if sand had been poured over them.

Ghirahim brushed his hair from his face and released the paper, rubbing his hand against the white halterneck top he wore as if to clean it. Then he got up, taking a slow breath when the exoskeleton of experience booted up.

"I suppose I have forgotten to celebrate", he said silkily, though his eyes held a benumbed expression. "Do you sell liquor here?"

/

"This is by no means a rash decision – I just didn't feel the need to tell anyone before. In case you are expecting a coverage of my newly found peace, you can absolutely forget that idea. There is a fabulousness that I don't wish to share and in case yearning takes over-glamorized version of road tripping, you might call it-don't hang your heads yet though, in case you foolishly think that's an appropriate attitude-not fab!-lovely concept will be continued-feel free to shed whatever juices over the new concept of something increasingly peachy-less hairy, I hope…-could crank that-luckily--"

The letters melted and refused to steady again. Ghirahim found that everything inside of him struggled against focusing his eyes on the page and reading properly. His hands were icy and sweaty, ink began to stick to the tips of his fingers. He was vaguely aware that he was breathing fast, vicious little twitches pricked his sides, his back, his face.

His hands were holding the utter ruin of his life.

The simplicity of this was crushing. And Ghirahim had never been someone who tried to shut out reality.

He had been a complete and utter fool, naïve and struck with overestimation of his own capabilities, and it had been brilliantly turned against him. By someone who knew those weaknesses. Ghirahim hadn't been able to summon any surprise when he discovered that Lycos would be the colleague that would kindly take over the column.

Simply Fab was very successful, it had taken Ghirahim almost a full year and all of his wit and inner and outer strength to draw enough attention and stir the sedate minds of modern people. Readers had gotten used to him, they loved the constant. They would accept someone else rather than giving it up – especially when that someone knew well how to impersonate the Demon Lord. There would be a new Demon Lord, it had already happened without Ghirahim suspecting a thing.

He was no Link, there would be no three years of hopeful waiting. The week of silence was the sign that everything was settled, the iron had gone cold, he could strike it with all his might and it would still only be his tombstone. Ghirahim was a feature, but that had never meant that he was unique.

They had known he wouldn't get into touch, that he would never return early and admit his defeat. That defeat had been planned all along – Ghirahim began to realize that even if he fantastically managed the full interview that had brought him here, his place at Skyward Serenade was lost. He could sell the story to a rivaling newspaper, a stale little victory that only taunted his defeat even more.

Ghirahim dropped the newspaper from numb fingers into the leg room of his rental car he was sitting in. It felt like something boomed out of his chest, clogged his throat and fused his joints. The yellow coupé stood in the middle of a dirt track, forgotten in the frenzy of getting away – it was somewhere on the way Ghirahim had always taken this week, a side road in Neverland.

Something choking crawled up his throat; he really should have gone with drinking first, though some silly instinct of sanity had insisted that he could only get trashed after he didn't need to get behind a steering wheel anymore, and not before.

Ghirahim inhaled deeply and did what he had sworn he would never do again: he bent forward and put his head between his knees, pressing them against the sides of his skull and wrapping his arms around his legs.

He remained like that for a long time – hours, maybe. The in-cabin room of the car warmed up, sun filtered through the glass and made the air thick and sultry. Ghirahim stayed motionless, his breathing was controlled again, there was no doubt he was awake.

When Ghirahim sat up, it happened ever so slowly, like the movement of a much older man, stiff and careful. Some of the strands he always meticulously combed and sprayed against the right side of his head had freed themselves and slid across his cheek. It was the only detail that had escaped Ghirahim's accurate styling, his eyes were calm and dispassionate when he reached over and unscrewed the cap of the glass bottle on the passenger seat. The sharp aroma of alcohol rose, mixed with the sweet-sour smell of oranges. Ghirahim looked around for a substitute for a glass, found none and huffed lightly before lifting the bottle and touching the neck against his lips.

Yes, the celebration indeed called for a drink.

/

The world had begun to fray, but the bottomless anger at everything and everyone had gradually dulled until it didn't feel sharp anymore, just mushy and slightly angular. He should have declared that simply fab long ago, really. Ghirahim felt more relaxed as soon as the urge to howl out his explosive cocktail of feelings (until the activated airbag blew up in his face) retreated. He had gotten out of the car and now sat on the hood, the heels of his boots occasionally kicked the front bumper and created a dang-dang-sound that broke the idyllic chirping of birds. Ghirahim sank back against the windshield and blinked lazily up as the trees seemed to spin around him.

He felt strangely relieved, detached from everything that had represented him. This feeling would turn ugly sometime, but right now it was enjoyable.

Something else began to interrupt the thumping sound on metal. It took Ghirahim a few seconds to realize that it was the stamping of hooves, just as rhythmic as the clang of his heel.

"You sure are a bloodhound", he murmured, his voice slurring and soft at the same time. Epona's massive body appeared between the trees, though she didn't approach right then – as if she sensed that something was different. Ghirahim idly wondered how much time had passed since he had left the Lumpy Pumpkin and a confused Kina.

Epona lowered her head to nibble on some weed, giving a grunt of protest when she was gently pushed aside.

Ghirahim stopped his dangling leg for a moment to look over; and then he burst into laughter, slamming his flat hands onto his thighs.

"Oh, that's priceless for sure! Searching for me, Prince Charming?"

The look of confusion on Link's face would have made Ghirahim laugh even if he hadn't been drunk; it was impossible to tell whether that expression came from the fact that the search had ended at such a randomly chosen place, or it hadn't occurred to Link that Ghirahim would get the wrong impression.

The author was dressed in plain shorts and a faded green t-shirt. He hadn't moved from Epona's side, maybe out of insecurity.

"Always wearing green… Pisses me off, y'know. Not like you're some fucking forest elf." Ghirahim slumped back against the windshield and sighed reconfirming. He felt hot – not the constant heat from outside he had endured the past few days, but an erratic fever in his bloodstream that was partly alcohol and partly… what? He couldn't put a finger on it, and the thought disappeared again.

Link walked closer, watchful as if he was approaching a wild animal that was dragging a leg, either out of pain or shock. Ghirahim narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling cornered. He abruptly slid off the hood, leaning most of his weight still onto the car because the ground suddenly seemed to sway under his feet. It angered him, who always kept such a flawless control over his body, and he tensed when Link took another step.

"Don't you dare to…!"

Touch him?

He had fantasized about this, even before he had seen Link. And now he refused it? It was an irony that made Ghirahim chuckle low in his throat, anger fading away for now. "So, were you going to touch me?"

Link studied him with an unreadable expression. His eyes never left Ghirahim's face, it was the same mien he had worn after Ghirahim had kissed him. He was intrigued by something that he seemed to fail to figure out as much as Ghirahim failed to figure out him.

He was close now, close enough to touch, but he didn't do it. Perhaps he needed time to break his deadlock. However, Ghirahim was tired of waiting.

"Coward."

He pushed himself up, glad that his balance was somewhat intact, though humiliation had recently lost all meaning anyway. He was more open to the disappointment he felt when he grinned mockingly at Link.

"You're the kind of fucking… loser that always waits for people to do the work, so you wash your hands of… responsity or something." Ghirahim laughed abrasively. "Bet you're deadweight in bed." God, he needed to stop talking, and stop philosophizing about other people's sex life as well. He could do both. He focused his eyes on the trail leading ahead and ran his hand through his hair when another surge of heat rose. It made him dizzy for a moment, but he kept walking, ignoring the soft smacking of soggy earth beneath his feet. He had been right when he first came here, everything was dirty and disordered and seriously needed cutting…

Link did not stop him. He moved more graceful than Ghirahim, effortlessly catching up. It would have been a moment where words substituted for actions because they kept a comfortable distance, sound was so easily ignored.

Ghirahim jerked to a stop, almost stumbling. That was a nice thought, actually – he should voice it before it disappeared again.

"You know, you could get rid of me, right now. All you need to do… is say it. Anything, and the genie is back in the bottle."

Ghirahim ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth; he wasn't sure himself whether he was lying, and there was no reason he needed to care about that right now. Anticipation sent tingles along his spine and his breath picked up speed. His fingers burned with the craving for touch, but he clenched his fists. Intoxication had numbed him, and still he yearned for something else – something that made him feel better instead of feeling nothing.

Link stared at him. He seemed to consider, though it was hard to tell by his blank face. Something was going on behind his maze-like eyes, but his lips remained closed – and that was all that Ghirahim needed to see. He sneered with cruel amusement.

"Vir-"

Link roughly grabbed the front of his white shirt, making the material bite the skin of Ghirahim's scruff and kissed him.

As measured by Ghirahim's experience, it was probably a wretched kiss. Link pressed his lips against his so hard that they got squeezed against the teeth, the numbness bordered on pain. There was no gentleness, and Link's rigorous kiss only eased slightly when his mouth moved, brushing over Ghirahim's and perhaps forming a word or a caress, it was impossible to tell. They were standing close, and Ghirahim failed to find his body, his breath…

It hurt – it was perfect.

The heat inside of him surged up, he involuntarily gasped. His teeth scraped Link's bottom lip, caught it and drew it to him. Ghirahim felt Link shiver and raised a hand to grab his wrist, though he made no move to rip it away from his clothing. His lips pulsed with dull warmth.

Want. I fucking want it.

Their mouths pressed mercilessly against each other, the sharp taste of alcohol made Link hiss – or it was Ghirahim's hand clawing his hair that evoked the sound. Breaths were drawn in frantic thrusts when they separated, and in a sudden frenzy, Ghirahim ground his hips against Link's. Both of them moaned at the friction; through the haze, Link's voice was strange and deep, a soft rumble that made Ghirahim's world slide out of focus.

It was wonderful – he wanted more of that contourless feeling that unfurled so much heat, and when he heard a hoarse laugh, it was him. He rocked his hips again and enjoyed the hardness he felt touching against his. There was no mistaking the arousal was mutual, which excited Ghirahim even more. He went more pliant, wrapping his arms around Link's neck. The tip of his tongue glided across the other's lips and discovered the small gap; warm, moist air gusted against the sensible skin and made him shiver violently.

Lust clouded his senses when Link tentatively ran his hand along his chest, his fingers felt for the joint of the ribcage, the smooth flatness seemed wondrous to him. Ghirahim had always been proud of his slender physique, but having someone explore his body like something exotic was new to him.

Link was slow, and in a corner of his mind, Ghirahim was aware that rushing him could snap him out of his daze. The author was delightfully unhurried but oh so hesitant…

Ghirahim's hand trailed down Link's slightly rough pants and cupped his crotch. Link tensed up and gave a low groan, his hand on Ghirahim's chest clenched and his closely cropped nails scratched the skin – it made the journalist sigh throatily.

Link's choice of clothing hardly accentuated his build, however, the shifting of his muscles was arousing. Ghirahim could feel his cock responding to the touch, straining the robust material. The question how much somebody was packing under the belt was just another part of his job, so it never made him feel giggly before, but right now…

The thought of work, no matter how brief it was, awoke the painful twitches again. His head began to spin, and his knees threatened to give away. He instinctively held onto Link's shoulders to stay upright and then leaned into him, shutting his eyes from the sunflecks and all the world.

Link's breath tickled Ghirahim's ear. His hands carefully moved to his sides, then he sank down onto his knees, dragging the weight of another body along. Along with the drumming of his heart and the still pounding fever in his blood, Ghirahim could feel lush grass and squashy soil, an earthy scent rose.

Ghirahim dug his nails into the nape of Link's neck. The spinning had stopped, and still the heat kept forming in his lap and enfolded his voice. He wanted nothing more than to rip up his clothes and grind against Link until he lost the rest of his mind, but-

"Don't you dare to put me in the delicate wash cycle now."

Articulating seemed difficult right now – one reason why Ghirahim didn't like getting drunk was that his mood swings were even more of a loose cannon than usual. Link squirmed and looked at him with a mixture of disorientation and lust. His cheeks and the tips of his ears had reddened, and his lips were moist and puffy. He was a sight to behold, and at the same time, his gingerliness had angered the part of Ghirahim that hated being cared for. Even if it was just some mechanical care.

Link planted his hands firmly on his chest and pushed him away, his eyes darting around like a fairy in a bottle that someone had recently given a hearty shaking.

Should've gone slow on some kid whose status quo is still a dead female under a canvas cover.

Perhaps this short moment had given Link the opportunity to see into Ghirahim's jaded inner self, making him balk. But such insight could never be one-sided and opened up a view that felt familiar to Ghirahim's hazy mind.

Link stood up and wiped his hand across his cheek, as if the blush could simply be rubbed off. His chest was rising and falling hastily, and he was nowhere near unaffected by the touch. Ghirahim simply looked up at him, his tongue ran along the corners of his mouth again and tasted a strange, remotely sweet note that reminded him of gooseberries.

He couldn't think at all. His hands rose and reached out, his fingers trembling with longing. A dull ache filled his body and pulsed in the beat of his hammering heart. Kina's odd words suddenly made sense. The whole book made sense, somehow.

… the hero realizes that he lets himself be exploited without knowing who he is…

"Don't leave me."

It didn't matter whether Link recognized the line. The shrinking in his eyes lessened, and he got to his knees with a dizzying grace. His face was unreadable once more when he yanked Ghirahim to him for a bruising kiss, their bodies writhing against each other. Ghirahim pushed them over, not caring when dark earth clung to his skin as he fumbled with inflexible clothing. He moaned unabashedly when Link pulled him on top and their erections clashed, drawing both pleasure and pain in their intensity. Ghirahim hissed and screwed his eyes shut, then pressed against the contact.

There was no sense, nor harmony. Undressing turned out to be too complicated and arrestive, and in some way, Ghirahim sensed that being naked would make both of them feel vulnerable.

He grinned as he tugged Link's old-fashioned breeches open and wrapped his hand around the heated flesh. The author moaned breathlessly, almost greedily rolling his hips; he was clumsy and stunning, his rough caresses and frenetic kisses left Ghirahim, who had never thought of himself as easily excitable, helpless with lustful obliquity. He gasped for air when they writhed again, turning over and finally settling in the grass, face to face.

Link made an amazed sound in the back of his throat when Ghirahim's teeth scraped along his pulse point, arousal and the thrill of instinctive fear blended. His fingers ran through the dusty white hair and mussed it before he shyly felt for the slim curve of the buttocks and grabbed it the next moment when Ghirahim's hand teased his arousal. Link seemed to be at a loss for a second before Ghirahim felt him smiling allusively. Another searing kiss made him groan, the bare skin of their cocks rubbed with an electrifying timing. More tension built up as their movements grew frantic, gasps and moans filled the warm air.

Everything was blurring once more. Ghirahim felt like he couldn't catch his breath, his panting carried a hoarse note, and he was slowly slipping. This was not sex, mot like he was used to it, and still it made him melt while he rocked against another body, Link's hot breath ghosted across his neck as he imitated what Ghirahim had done before. His coarse hand was a bit sticky and trembled with brimming lust.

In the blink of an eye, the world suddenly turned white, and everything began to whirl around. Ghirahim felt the strain escape, his own voice was raw and husky when he cried out, never missing the deep-drawn sigh Link made and violently shuttered. Sweat glistened lazily, and just getting enough air was more than enough to do.

Ghirahim would have loved to enjoy the afterglow that he had missed for so long, but his body was somehow not cooperating. His consciousness began to fade, and he didn't have the power to fight it – he was even too content to mind that.

Wiry strands of hair sent a few tingles down his spine, Ghirahim caught the feeling.

"Drat."

It was not his voice. And he almost regretted not making digs at the fact that someone didn't know how to swear before he finally disappeared.

/

A/N: I enjoyed the chapter, which probably makes me a horrible person. Sorry. But drunk Ghirahim was fabulous in his own way.