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Link shifts, drawing more of his weight onto Ghirahim and pinning him to the bed. Looking Ghirahim over, he’s amazed that their relationship has gotten to a point Ghirahim would trust him like this, fated enemies as they once were.
That is, they both knew that Ghirahim’s only staying under Link because he wants to be there, even if he’s had some doubts. The pretense of weakness isn't as unpleasant as Ghirahim had worried it would be, and though he knows in the back of his head there’s very little chance he wouldn’t enjoy this, he feels uncertain because of what had been. He is a living being, and before, back when he was expected to be the competent, ideal tool, all the parts that made him him were seen as weaknesses to be hammered away. He didn’t have a choice then, but this is now, so he’s willing to give this a try.
That said, Ghirahim’s still... uneasy.
"Well, are you going to get on with it or not?" Ghirahim taunts, masking his nerves.
"You should stay quiet," Link shoots back, putting on a tough-guy act—still, Ghirahim notes, it's too soft and not quite a command, not yet, and he’s unsure whether to feel offended or grateful—before Link brings his attention back to Ghirahim's body and starts trailing his rough, sword-callused fingers around the expanse of it.
None of it is new to him, not anymore, except the framing, the context, but Link could never get bored of admiring Ghirahim and all his lean muscle, especially when he knows Ghirahim loves the attention from the way he preens under his gaze. His hands glide downwards, thumbs rubbing circles into his hips, then back up to tease and pinch at Ghirahim’s sensitive nipples, which harden quickly.
Heat blossoms under Ghirahim’s skin where Link’s hands go, body curving up to meet their touch, melting the edge off his nerves. Ghirahim makes to put his hands onto Link’s hips, but they’re slapped away lightly. Stamping down a flare of defiance, he places them at his sides instead, fingers curling into the sheets. He stifles his full-bodied trembling when Link’s hands come to rest where his core would sit on his true form’s chest, flint lighting sparks across skin.
That flicker of defiance must have shown on his face, though, since Link reaches over with one hand and cups Ghirahim’s cheek, facade slipping, and Ghirahim leans into his touch. Link brushes a thumb across the black diamond, the spot where his true form peeks out from this one, before leaning down and pulling him into a slow, sensual kiss. He snakes his hand downwards, swallowing Ghirahim’s ensuing whine when he ghosts past the line of Ghirahim’s slit, cupping him briefly, and goes to stroke his inner thigh instead. A slow flush blooms on Ghirahim’s face as one hand continues to dance around the area Ghirahim wants his touch the most, avoiding it, and the other runs down Ghirahim’s torso, which ripples under his touch.
Already sick and impatient of the teasing, Ghirahim tries to spur Link on, clawing at Link’s hips and nipping at Link’s lip, drawing blood.
Jerking back, Link huffs and stifles a laugh—he’s used to the bruising and biting and clawing; even now he’s still covered in his demon's marks of ownership from the other night—and admonishes him with a low “Ghirahim”.
Ghirahim pouts, huffing back. Now, Link’s sword-callused fingers are… at least at his slit now, still teasing, but not entering, and Link starts to mouth at his neck, sucking and bruising the pale skin there, moving to his collarbones, then lightly, to his sensitive chest. It’s not nearly enough, but even this much from his skychild is enough to make him start dripping and gasping.
Link’s always been the one to come undone under Ghirahim’s touch, and never the other way around, so it’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s trusting Link, exposing such vulnerability to him.
You can’t exactly blame him for wanting to prolong this, chancing Ghirahim’s mercurial moods. He remembers how even as Ghirahim felt confident he would win against Link, he had carefully guarded his core, anticipating Demise's return. The bad feeling that gave off could be just that—a feeling, maybe—but on the chance he's right he wants to continue spending as much of his limited time painting over old memories with new ones.
(Link knows that this—not just tonight, but their relationship, he, himself—, will simply be a nice warm afternoon Ghirahim will look fondly back on. When the sun sets, their time would be done and over, a drop in the ocean of Ghirahim's life. Yet still, he hopes, and he wants. But he also doubts, a little.
Is it selfish for him to make a promise—one he's not sure he'd be able to keep—, that he'll remember through the grim and inevitable eventuality of Demise's curse? To tie Ghirahim to him, make him endure a painful and lonely pilgrimage through what may be close to an eternity, waiting and hoping for Link and chancing the oblivion of death and rebirth, so that maybe, just maybe, Link could meet him and see him and love him, again, only to part, rinse, and repeat?)
Link inhales sharply, shaking off the somber thoughts; there’s no point in worrying about things he can’t control. But right now, he could control this, the metal-made-flesh under his fingers, make him fall apart at the seams.
So, Link spreads the slickness around, he dips one calloused finger in and out of Ghirahim’s slit, exploring it, testing. Whenever it seemed like Ghirahim’s cock would stir, Link’s fingers would retreat, trailing softly elsewhere, before coming back to tease him again. He runs a finger along his still-hidden cock, drawing out a shuddering exhale, then presses at a spot that makes Ghirahim jerk his head back into the bed.
Hazily, Ghirahim wonders if it’s too late to ask the goddesses for mercy now and whether they’d even answer a demon lord like him, the ex-sword of the god of darkness, king of the demons. He feels Link smiling against his collarbone as he avoids the spot and goes back to teasing in and out over and over again. Ghirahim’s full attention is held down there, unable to focus otherwise, but it’s wildly, infuriatingly, frustratingly unsatisfying the way Link is teasing him with. Just. One. Finger.
Cursing under his breath, Ghirahim snarls. “Enough with this torment, you brat; get on wi—,” Ghirahim cuts off into a moan as Link suddenly presses into that spot again, punishing, and he sees stars before Link removes his fingers just as quickly.
Propping himself back up again, Link narrows his eyes at Ghirahim.
"Hm... this won't do," Link murmurs, as he licks the slick off his fingers.
Ghirahim’s eyes darken at the edge of Link’s voice and the sight of Link’s small red tongue darting between his lips, past the smudge of bone white lipstick, the mark of their earlier kiss, a shiver running down his spine.
"Objects—," Link hesitates on the word, before drawing himself up and further into the scene with a feigned harshness. "Good, obedient swords don't speak and they don't move. Shut up and stay hard.” Pausing, Link tilts his head and bites his lip. He likes the sounds his sword makes, even if he does mouth off a little too much quite too often.
“You can beg, but when you do, you must call me master, and nothing else."
Ghirahim gasps, forced to swallow his words as the orders settle in where his core is hidden, a warm knot in his chest, his slit dripping even more heavily.
It's not like Ghirahim asked for this, but his body had always betrayed him, especially whenever he pounds Link into the sheets and Link demands, orders him to go harder, faster; he could feel the blood rush straight down as he obeys. Actually, he would never have asked for this, silenced by his own pride, but he's certain they’re here because Link caught on to how his cock throbs at his demands. When Link asked if he'd like to try something new—explaining what exactly he'd like them to try and something about how they could back out if it’s too much at any time—of course he'd oblige. This is all a favor for his dearest darlingest skychild hero and absolutely not because something deep inside of him yearned to be bound and used and forced to submit, after all these years.
(Ghirahim was created wicked, made to slaughter, and look at him now, commanded to be a good, obedient sword. It's ridiculous how much he likes this, letting himself be collared and leaving the leash in Link's hands, a demon brought to heel. He likes how much he loves him, a disgusting feeling that thrums in the core in his chest and warms him from the inside out. His core, his oh-so-traitorous core, all fits and starts at Link’s voice and Link’s smile and—and just about all of Link, really. When this moment ends, he'll be back to his insufferable, haughty self, but for now, he'll indulge himse—his skychild.)
Ghirahim’s attention is pulled back into the moment when Link moves to sit between his legs. As Link hikes them up and together, he says, “Keep your thighs pressed together.”
Ghirahim does, and he soon feels the press of Link’s erection behind him—he groans, knowing Link is turned on from just toying with and using him—and feels Link slipping it between his thighs, right up against his slit, getting wet from the slick already leaking from him.
Link braces himself, a tight grip on Ghirahim’s legs—not that Ghirahim minds—and starts thrusting, savoring the pressure around his cock.
It doesn’t take long for Ghirahim to start falling apart; his attention primed towards the slick, wet sound of Link’s accelerating thrusts and skin meeting skin. The way Link’s length peaks out of his thighs as he thrusts in. The Demise-damned friction the back and forth motion presents against his slit.
Ghirahim digs his fingers into the bed under him for purchase, even though he doesn’t need to brace himself, not physically. He’s not quite ready to beg, just yet, so his mouth opens and closes around words that leave him half formed and strangled, quips and jabs dead in his throat.
Link notices there's another bump at the end of his thrust—there it is—and slows down to a stop.
He slips his cock out and slaps Ghirahim’s thigh—light and sharp—, the shock of it making Ghirahim gasp.
“You can relax your legs now.”
He obeys, compelled by the thrall of his master’s command.
Ghirahim’s not sure when exactly he had closed his eyes, but when he opens them, his breath catches at the sight below him, between his legs. He takes in his skychild, how Link’s flush creeps past his sun kissed face, towards his freckled shoulders and chest, how his breaths come in fast uneven pants, and how heavy and red his erection is. He’s—he’s not thinking about how the sight of Link makes a mess out of him, how Link's pleasure while using him satiates that part of him that wants to be of use. He's not.
Link moves down, off the bed, head level with Ghirahim’s crotch. Link's spent plenty of time worshiping on his knees; now he finds he doesn't mind choosing to blaspheme instead, kneeling for a demonic lord—or, well, an obedient sword. His obedient sword—who is his, just as much as he is theirs, now. Link bends his head down, a mockery of prayer, his mouth to Ghirahim’s slit, wasting no time to lap at the peeking cock to coax it out, salt on his tongue.
He alternates between mouthing at the head and placing small licks at the partially hidden shaft, and helps it along by taking it in his hand and partially sliding in and out of Ghirahim and pumping as it slips out.
And finally, finally, Ghirahim’s intolerable heat is freed from his slit, already hard, now exposed to the air, and Link smiles. He keeps his other hand on Ghirahim’s thigh, there to remind Ghirahim to stay still, as he pauses from his ministrations.
Ghirahim feels the puff of Link’s breath on his cock and that, along with—with everything, right now, makes him feel oddly vulnerable, like the first time he willingly let Link touch his sensitive core; uncharacteristically embarrassed, even though it’s not like it’s anything Link hasn’t already seen before, even though he's normally rather confident.
The goddess-forsaken teasing resumes, again, Link pausing to nose at his groin and nip and suck at his inner thighs before bringing himself back to Ghirahim's cock and licking a stripe down the length of it, then taking the head into his mouth and sucking and pumping his shaft with a free hand.
The wet heat of Link's mouth, but only at the head, isn't enough. "Please, o-oh, please, more, Lin—, sky ch—," Ghirahim babbles, his mouth curving around the words, unable to complete them without breaking Link’s command. He finally collects himself and settles on "M-master," before Link dips his tongue into the slit of his cock and he breaks off into another keen whine and a sob as he bucks, and surprised that his body didn’t stop itself, he looks to Link in confusion. Link smirks at him, before he realizes: he’d have to restrain himself without being bound by command.
And with that, Link obliges; he takes the whole of Ghirahim’s length into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, the taste of Ghirahim's slick and precum and sweat on his tongue and the musk—the smell of Ghirahim’s arousal—filling his senses. When he goes all the way down, he feels Ghirahim go still, tensing and trembling from tightly exerted control, and his cock throbs.
Link's heard of the particularly devout speaking in tongues, in languages dead or unknown, said to match that of the writing written on the ruins surrounding the statue, perhaps, or spoken by distant ancestors—or those of other races or species, come to think of it. He's always thought of it as an old wives' tale, but reconsiders. Maybe this is one way to do so: mouthing his desire into existence, and deciphering the word of Ghirahim’s body in turn, the tensing and writhing and rippling muscles a beautiful language of its own.
He revels in the way gasps and moans spill like hymns from Ghirahim's lips as he takes him into his mouth, cock heavy on his tongue, working it slowly, teasing. When he moves to come off of it, Ghirahim makes an aborted movement to chase the warmth of Link's mouth.
Ghirahim's attention is consumed singularly by Link’s mouth as Link goes down to swallow him whole again, the tip of his cock meeting the back of Link’s throat, and he’d be pushed past the brink, by now, or be close to it, but his ever obedient body prevents his release.
"Master, please," Ghirahim pleads. barely grinding out the last word, as his legs hook around Link's shoulders, drawing him closer, forgetting the command, mind drunk on pleasure.
Link, mouth full and unable to speak, digs his fingers into Ghirahim's thighs and growls lightly while making a ghost of a bite, a simple press of teeth. It's a mere suggestion of a threat, but it’s enough to make Ghirahim let out a plaintive moan. The suggestion of potential pain and the low vibrations make Ghirahim's cock jump, and he almost wants to chase that kind of pleasure, instead.
Thinking enough is enough, Link stops. He lets Ghirahim stew on it for a heated moment—if he could even think at this point, glassy-eyed as he is—, as if this is punishment for disobeying, before straddling Ghirahim again, taking in the sight of him breathing heavily, hair perfectly disheveled and makeup smudged and flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Link caresses Ghirahim reverently before reaching behind himself.
Ghirahim hears a squelching noise in the haze of arousal, vaguely aware of Link tossing an object away from them.
He feels his cock being held steady, then a sudden tight heat around his length—Link is seated on his length, completely, in one go.
Ghirahim shivers from self-restraint, muscles rippling. Links fingers rub into Ghirahim's hips, and he marvels at the power thrumming under him and feels a heady rush of blood downwards, knowing Ghirahim is keeping himself in check, just for him.
Link rides him, rolling his hips to find the spot, and when he does, he moans and sets a steady but rough rhythm; cock bouncing, heavy and red, leaking precum. He’s already so worked up from—from fucking Ghirahim’s thighs, and it’s obvious from the way he’s chasing his own pleasure and the desperate slam downwards.
Ghirahim watches the utterly debauched way Link works those thighs of his and how he moans, “Ah, ah,” and makes several halting thrusts, caught between wanting to chase the tight heat of Link’s ass and thinking better of it, trying to obey the order gone unsaid, muscles straining to keep still.
The rhythm stutters, and a few frantic beats later, Link comes with a shout, mind blanking and cum spilling over Ghirahim’s chest in several short bursts.
Link is panting and shaking, hair plastered to his face, but Ghirahim’s cock is still hard by command, and it’s just so much, now. His entire body is a bow drawn taut from unreleased tension. It’s painful how hard he is, as he feels Link pulsing around him, and he’s rambling, and he wants to come, he needs to, and he’s not sure what he’s saying, or if he’s saying anything coherent at all, but he hopes the pleading gets across anyhow.
In the midst of this arousal-borne daze, Ghirahim wonders of the goddesses, again, if they haven't let him off the hook after all. Whether their newest ploy was to somehow let the skychild use Hylia's control over time to seal him in a perpetual pleasure that seeps into his veins; a prison he wouldn't want to escape. The way he feels frozen in time at the moment certainly makes it feel so, though a part of him knows the chances of it are none at all, and even if it didn't, he believes the skychild wouldn't betray him.
Through the static, Ghirahim barely hears Link, something other than harsh breaths finally leaving his mouth:
“Come, Ghirahim.”
With that, Ghirahim is pushed over the edge; a feral howl is dragged out of him as he comes, thrashing, all the pent-up tension finally released, vision blacking out.
Link wipes the tender skin under Ghirahim's eye, his finger coming away wet. He takes a moment to take Ghirahim in again; his eyes closed as he shivers, undone, his unguarded visage a far cry from the barely contained ferocity that thrills Link the other times they’ve had sex, and he finds his heart caught in his throat.
He lifts himself off while Ghirahim's mind is still numb from the pleasure, cum dripping out of his ass.
"Turn around. Onto your arms and knees. Present yourself for me," he murmurs.
As Link leans away, Ghirahim's body, ever so dutiful, obeys before his mind could catch up. When it does, he realizes he had cried as he came, and decides not to think on that, on how he had melted under Link’s touch, which is now as masterful on his body as Link’s handle on his sword, instead focusing on how his eyeliner is likely ruined and turning his head to eye at the very interesting wood carvings decorating their room. It’s not much of a distraction, so he's grateful when Link wets a finger on his slick and teases his entrance, before he slips a finger in.
The slow teasing is welcome, this time, until it isn’t—one finger, even if it’s pressed all the way in now, is maddening once his sensitivity fades, and just that. Ghirahim’s cock is coaxed back to fullness, and Link slips in another calloused finger, scissoring them. “Master—, please, more—,” Ghirahim begs; he could take more.
Link knows that, that Ghirahim would probably welcome the pain, still feel like he deserves it, for some reason his perfectionist ass believes he deserves to be punished for, the stretch and burn of being filled too soon, but he wants Ghirahim to know that even if they’re acting as if Ghirahim is simply his sword and that he’s simply Ghirahim’s master, he’s one that cherishes his things, one that doesn’t mete undue punishment.
So he continues, slowly, brushing occasionally against the spot that makes Ghirahim’s back arch.
It’s been a very long while since Ghirahim’s bottomed—he’s finding himself slow to relax; it’s a strange sensation, being prepped—but eventually, Link finally seems to decide it’s time to slip in his third finger, and it’s a bit of a stretch, this time. Link explores his ass with his fingers, then crooking them deftly, just so, and Ghirahim jolts. His cock is dripping precum, again, puddling onto the sheets, and it’d be so, so easy to just grind down to get that extra stimulation.
It isn’t long until Link decides he’s been prepped well enough and slips his fingers out. Ghirahim keens at the sudden emptiness and chases them, leaning back. He only just remembers he shouldn’t move as he’s startled by a light smack on his ass.
In a moment, he feels the wet head of Link’s cock resting against his hole, and he whines, fighting against the urge to push back on it to hurry Link up. The press of Link’s cock is slow but sure—he never does let up after he fixes on a goal, does he?—, and he takes his sweet time sinking into Ghirahim until he bottoms out.
Link takes a moment to relish the feeling of Ghirahim around his cock, and leans down to envelope him in an embrace.
Link’s shorter than him, so even chest-to-back Link doesn’t engulf him, but like this, the warmth of Link's solid weight adds to the unbearable heat that's filling him and he trembles. It's not like Link is particularly big—and in a way, Ghirahim's glad that is so; it removes this experience even further from the past, when he was made to simply stay still and just breathe through pain, even when it passed the point of pleasure, even if he enjoyed it then, desperate to be needed, somehow, in any capacity.
And he’s still just breathing, now, but the master he has now is determined to melt him from the sheer force of pleasure alone, even as he wields his power over him. He can’t say it’s not working, not when all his begging is knocked out of him, words out of reach; as Link moans and pants as his cock drives into Ghirahim, chasing his own pleasure again.
His body thrums with delight as Link fills him and uses him to indulge his own desires, and he loses himself in a way he hadn’t before, getting delirious from getting filled, like this.
It’s a strange thing, to be a nail that feels the kiss of a hammer without being struck down, and stranger still, to trust it. But, Ghirahim remembers; they’re no longer the tools of gods and goddesses, indifferent to all but their own wars and so-called wisdom. They’re no longer fettered to the machinations of deities; if they were actors made to dance to a predestined script, instead of exiting stage left once their parts were over, they ended up falling in between the margins instead, finding something wholly new there.
They were once puppets, but Ghirahim is Ghirahim and Link is Link—and Link has long since earned his trust, and they’ll stop if he asked.
He doesn't want them to stop.
Ghirahim whines as Link grips his cock, pumping him, thumbing at the slit, finger swiping beneath its head, before going down and back up again. He aims at the spot that makes Ghirahim see stars and Ghirahim feels heat pooling, cresting, the sensations unbearable once more; he’s painfully hard, again.
Link doesn't deny him his release for long this time; in a moment, Link tells him to come, again, and he comes. He’s pumped through the aftershocks of his orgasm this time, and he’s shaking, now, kept up on his elbows and legs through the force of Link’s commands alone.
Link takes a moment to catch his breath before he speaks.
"My sword, Ghirahim…, " Link murmurs, "I release you from your orders."
The knot at his chest unravels, and Ghirahim collapses to the bed, shivering at the possessive words, Link still on top of him.
Link, still hard inside, rolls them over, avoiding the stains on the bed, so that he's spooning Ghirahim. He shifts a little and Ghirahim flinches, oversensitive.
Pausing, Link asks, "Ghirahim? Can you show me your core?"
Another non-order, Link hesitating once again.
Ghirahim used to shield his core; he likes a little pain, but not being battered. He's understood for a while—at least a little—why Hylia would carve out a piece of the land to hide in the clouds, that she would hide away the most vulnerable for protection, as much as he begrudged her.
He knows Link still has some grief about how he had once plunged the blessed blade into Ghirahim’s gem core, shattering it rather relentlessly, but the cracks have long since healed into spiderlines, even if it remains ever more sensitive and brittle than before. Once, he thought he would never show it to Link ever again, out of a fear he would never have admitted to. Still now, in front of Link, he finds himself lowering his defenses.
His love and loyalty once given is a sure thing, and Ghirahim obeys as if it were a command—
He exposes the most vulnerable part of him.
Dimly, he wonders if humans ever knew what it really means to wear one's heart on their sleeve, or at least, right on their chest, in full view; to be ever so vulnerable to the kiss of their dearest enemy’s sword or to the whisper of their beloved’s caress.
Exhausted from the post orgasmic haze, the pale of his arms and legs peel back to partially reveal his exquisite black form as well, even though he didn't quite mean to—even though nothing. He absolutely did it on purpose. Clearly. Definitely.
… There's never a bad moment to show off his stunning features.
Link hums in amusement, recognizing Ghirahim’s sudden stiffness as quiet mortification but pleased with how handily he had unraveled Ghirahim. His hand glides up Ghirahim's thigh and squeezes at the dark, metallic flesh, both admiring the contrast between cool metal and warm skin and reassuring him, before it settles on the middle of his chest, right at his exposed core.
"Think you can go for one more?" Link asks, rolling his hips again and running a finger down the edge of his core before he gets an answer.
Ghirahim holds back a sob as Link’s length teases into his prostate again, still rather oversensitive, but makes a vague noise as a breath rattles out of him and nods into the bed in assent, the words caught in his throat once again, though this time from the scrape of a nail at his sensitive core instead of a worded muzzle. Even when Link doesn’t use his nails, the friction of rough calluses against Ghirahim’s core is delicious; he skillfully strums strings of moans out of Ghirahim, the glide of his nail making Ghirahim’s breath hitch and the press of his finger making him buck. He reaches behind him to grip at Link’s thigh, encouraging him to go on.
Link loves how Ghirahim’s muscles flutter against him. He presses into Ghirahim’s body slowly, a simple and slow rolling of his hips to keep his own orgasm at bay, but this time, Ghirahim allows his sobs to spill out; he can’t hold them back now, overstimulated.
For a moment, Ghirahim’s glad Link hasn’t dug his other arm under and around him to wrap his fingers around his cock, as tender it feels right now. Instead, Link rubs into his back with one hand and his core with the other, murmuring soft, encouraging words he can barely hear as he continues to rock them closer to shore. Ghirahim's cock fills out, oversensitivity bleeding over into pleasure once more, the hand pressing and scratching at his core helping it along.
It takes a while longer for Ghirahim to reach orgasm this time, but with a particularly rough scratch of a blunt nail punctuated by a thrust to his prostate, the dam finally bursts. Ghirahim grasps at the hand at his core, keeping it there, as he comes with a strangled cry of Link’s name. His mind blanks as shudders wrack his body and his cock twitches without releasing more cum, already dry and wrung out.
The pulsing around his cock drives Link over the edge, too, and he spends inside of Ghirahim, filling him.
It takes a moment for Link to catch his breath, back from the brink of orgasm. He pulls out, gentle.
It takes a moment longer for Ghirahim to regain his senses, and he feels Link’s soft exhales as he breathes against his shoulder blade and feels the cum dripping from his ass. He feels a full-bodied ache; not pained, but well-worn, more like the satisfaction of a battle well-fought, except this left him dizzy from a warmth in his chest.
Despite Link’s relative inexperience, he makes him feel strangely exposed, the steady hearth of an affection freely given melting the chromium shell guarding his core self. Ghirahim isn’t able to recall a time he’s felt the bone deep content of being used to serve combined with… this intimacy, so sweet and unknown, in all the several millennia of his existence.
Sometimes, he still isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve all this—even if Link says he didn’t have to earn this—, to deserve Link. Link, who should have been a hero, welcomed by all of the former denizens of Skyloft. Link, who somehow chose him over even the incarnation of Hylia. Link, who let go of grudges too easily, even when he’s still staunchly unrepentant. It’s not that he believes that he needs or that he's unworthy of absolution; he simply couldn’t have imagined that he’d be welcomed as a friend, much less a lover, instead of being set on a wall as a war trophy, when all he has to show for himself are failures.
Besides, despite all the talk Ghirahim had made about a thread of fate, once Demise was gone, they could have cut it off; Link didn’t ever have to choose him, and Ghirahim… Well, as much as he enjoys the days now he wouldn’t have minded if there were none, back then, when his raison d’etre vanished...
He ever so carefully doesn’t think about how sometime in the future, even if they did keep this up for as long as they can, Link’s time bleeds out faster than his. He knows with certainty every last tender part of him will bruise, will wound, and one day, all that is left will be an old scar on his soul, mirroring the fine lines that remain on his core.
His melancholy must have been obvious, since Link mumbles, “Was it that bad?” trying to pull him back from his thoughts, the soft puff of his breath tickling Ghirahim’s back.
Ghirahim does not snort, as that would be quite beneath his station, but the noise that came out of him was quite close to one. “No, darling,” he drawls. He feels Links arms hugging him tighter.
Assuming his old front, he postures as well as one could lying on their side, being spooned by someone shorter than them. “Your performance was admirable; that my guidance has allowed you to become so skilled has filled my heart with sunshine and chirping songbirds! Though perhaps, it isn’t quite as wonderful as hearing you scream when I’m dominating the field.”
Laughing, Link slips his hand into Ghirahim's and squeezes, who squeezes back.
“So... you’d rather do me instead of ever doing this again?”
“... I never said that.”