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The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past

Quote from "Watership Down," by Richard Adams.

Ink, inkwash, highlighter.

its time to go home

arrhythmia. [scaramouche/reader]

summary : scaramouche reads books about romance and love, but all of them are a hollow mockery compared to what he actually feels for you. tags : angst/comfort, character study, medical description of the body and viscera, mild gore and body horror (decapitation ment. but no one dies,) scaramouche origin spoilers + my own theories, 3k words. -> please be safe when reading! -> i edited the ending, so it's being reuploaded ^^

(page 1)

there is a muscle within the mortal anatomy that beats continuously and unconsciously.

it is a muscular organ, sinewy and dense, and though its size varies on the animal, it puts up quite a fight in trying to keep the beast it inhabits alive.

it is a vulnerable spot, a weak point of the body, and the hardest of the four to reach - the others being the kidney, the lung, and the jugular. but scaramouche finds it can be popped and burst with relative ease by jamming a blade between the ribs and the other musculature the steel finds there.

scaramouche has come to know this thing to be a "heart," and that - according to all of your books - it is the origin of love and the soul; its beat the single telling sign between a body and a corpse.

such a large vulnerability within the human structure would make any immortal lament, and despite how the body has evolved to protect itself, it just isn't enough.

scaramouche is perplexed, but he also finds himself lucky in that regard. he does not have a heart, and therefore he has one less weak point to think about. one less thing to keep track of.

(your existence is something else entirely, however.

it is no secret that the commanding harbinger has a soft spot for you, the onsite doctor assigned to his troupe. more often he can be found in the medical tent you reside in, browsing the books that line your shelves or having his wounds treated with lithe hands.

you are not a weak point, but also not particularly a boon, either, and he doesn't continue his train of thought past those two points. scaramouche dares not think of you in anything but simplicities; if he dwells too long he might even consider you something more, and he fears that "something more" will evolve into a vulnerability, something irritating that actively endangers his being.

that of which he ardently denies you be, despite every nerve in his body telling him otherwise.)

(page 2)

you are enamored by him, your eyes practically alight whenever he enters your office.

it's quite a small space, the canvas walls allowing perhaps a body or two to move freely within its confines, not to mention your personal belongings and the various miscellaneous medical appliances you are required to have on hand.

here, in this small space, scaramouche can practically hear your heartbeat. he bites back a scathing remark about your gaze and how it bores holes into him; his tongue itching to fight if only to soothe his nerves.

your specialties, from what he’s gathered snooping through your records, lie in internal wounds and unseen ailments, in treating the human body from the inside out. his underlings jest and call your pinpoint acumen for illness dealing with organs “spiritualism” as a joke, your senses psychic in some way, though scaramouche tells them off with much ardor: you simply specify in the viscera of the human condition. nothing special.

scaramouche can’t quite fathom the interest you've taken on him, or more specifically his body. outwardly, his naked chest doesn’t differ too much from the medical diagrams of bisected torsos that line your walls, but below the surface run deep scars of immortality.

within his chest, however, is a hollow hole where the magic that powers him dwells - the spell volatile and old and temperamental, much like its owner. as far as he knows, it functions quite similarly to that of its human counterpart. it responds instinctually to his adrenaline and stress levels, and it circulates magic to his limbs to allow proper movement and bodily health.

ei’s craftsmanship is impeccable, her prototype of a created being a success for all intents and purposes, even if he does not fully understand what it is that fills him. scaramouche has nothing to be proud of in regard to his physical form, having none of it be truly his. his magical core is a spell he does not know, and his intestines that line his stomach function a purpose he does not need, purely ornamental unless he decides to otherwise.

(and yet, even without a heart, you somehow find it within yourself to call him a work of art.

he’s flushing just at the thought.)

(page 3)

scaramouche has ingested bovine heart before on your recommendation when he offhandedly mentioned his interest in mortal anatomy, the meat said to be auspicious for prosperity. you also mentioned you were quite the cook, and he wasn’t one to refuse something so beneficial to fall right into his lap.

he had hoped that with this outing he’d discover why the mortal heart was considered the pinnacle of life, even if what he was digesting was derived from cattle. to him they were quite similar, if only different in physical size.

but when the porcelain bowl of stew was placed into his hands, he didn't gain any insight into love or life aside from how tough and fibrous the meat was. it doesn't taste too much different than the rest of the animal, and he can assume, therefore, that it isn't much special than the other cuts, either.

perhaps that's the virtue of viscera, a small part of scaramouche thinks, that they don't need active thought to function, that they can just be. raiden ei had given him a tongue and the ability to consume, so perhaps that is her gift to him - the propensity to have good food and good company.

conversely, a different, much larger, much more vocal part of him is angered, the taste of heart inciting a deep seated bone-crawling sense of injustice that that is all she had given him.

that of everything the raiden shogun could have ever given him, that of all the things his god given gift could be -

it was a function he didn’t even need.

but when his grip splinters the bowl and he stands to throw it somewhere into the woods, teeth bared - he remembers your recommendation, and that consideration alone is kind to the part of him that suffers. it does not sway his anger, but it does give him enough clarity to not break your china.

(scaramouche does find out one thing that night, however; that he purrs.

there’s the faint hum of magic when you press your head to his chest, and when you run a hand up the hem of his shirt you can feel the lightest vibration beneath your fingertips. the smell of wine and candles only seems to draw your ear closer to the sound, and he says nothing as you lean him back.

he can only hope that when you hear his soul thrum a little faster, your heart, too, responds in kind. your touch gentle as they run up his sides.)

(page 4)

there is a saying you told him once - "that love is what causes sacrifice" - but scaramouche finds that desperation is just as any of a good motivator, too.

the desperation to survive, the desperation to live another day.

the desperation to see you again.

you are not wrong when you say he does not suffer in the same way people do. true suffering is like a tidefall - no chance to breathe as it crashes in on you, and with tiding water it takes your chances of trying. but he has an infinite amount of tries - an infinite amount of choices - untouched as he is by the concept of "sacrifice."

and, typically, he is the one in charge of causing said suffering.

to scaramouche the heart and human body are so very fragile; easily rendable by both blade and fist alike, and he as an imitation is no different in that sense. however, the amount of his own arms and legs he's left in the name of getting a job done is no weight on his consciousness.

his lost limbs regenerating and snapping back together with swift force - the click of bone and the slick sound of flesh familiar to him at this point. to scaramouche the body is expendable and meant to be regrown.

(not yours though.

he'd shatter himself one hundred times over before he'd let a single thing touch your skin. and, perhaps in your better interest, he'd kill whatever was hunting him one thousand times over before it ever touched him.

he has no blood so he doesn't understand the true pain of bleeding out, slow and steady. but he knows, clinically, what it entails and the strain it puts on the body. it's natural to not understand what he doesn't have, so it reasons that he would have no real drive to understand the human anatomy more than he already does.

but scaramouche still remembers your face, your expression, and the horrid, grating sound you had made as his whole world tilted on its axis, his head lopped off in a single blow during an impromptu raid.

there was no blood, no fanfare, but you still reacted like his body had something to give; hands ripping fabric as if to tie him back together.

your soft hands coming up to touch his dirt-covered cheeks, to cradle his head for just a small moment in time, and he's caught off guard by the comforting touch.

insults to move, to get away, to leave jumped to his tongue - but then you're gone in an instant. instead you dragged his sword to your side as your body takes on a stance - tensing as if to defend him with your life.

all the while he had just watched from his spot on the ground, useless and powerless.

if you were to fall there, scaramouche wouldn't have had enough medical knowledge to treat you properly - he wouldn't even have had the proper knowledge of the human body to make sure you passed comfortably .

but more than that, he didn't know when he was going to be able to get back up. his movement coming back to him only in minute increments as his spine mended itself. he could only dig his fingers in pitiful, palpable fear.

thankfully the raid was successfully rebuffed and he responded to the aggressors in cruel kindness once everything was reattached, but it, too, still counted as one of his desperations. desperate to never see, nor hear, nor even feel, you do something like that ever again.

if that is what sacrifice is then love is terrifying.

love feels like watching the people you care for preparing to sacrifice themselves for you. love feels like wanting to preserve a person's future beyond your powers.

love feels like overwhelming waves as it crashes in on you, no berth of choice to escape it, dragging away your chances of even trying with its all-consuming tide.)

(page 5)

scaramouche feels like he's being ripped in two.

the urge to seek you out and simultaneously avoid you borderline violent in its intensity. his head hurts, his chest hurts, and his fingers itch to claw at the heat beneath his skin. he can't stop thinking about you, and it's both joyous and deeply infuriating - thoughts of you plague his mind at every corner and his chest feels - lighter almost.

scaramouche is slowly beginning to let loose the vice grip he has on his anger. this isn't good.

he flings himself upright in your bed at the revelation, his hands flying to his hair to grip the strands in a white-knuckled grip in an attempt to ground himself. scaramouche can feel his vitals fluctuating, his adrenaline and cortisol levels spiking, and an uncomfortable sweat begins to bead his neck.

his magic core physically hurts.

if he isn't fighting, if he has no anger, no drive - then who is he? if he were to continue the life he has with you now - what would even take its place then? you?

he twists to look behind him, panicked eyes falling to your sleeping form comfortable just beneath the sheets. the bitter taste of insecurity fills his mouth and he just stares.

would you even want to?

scaramouche releases his hair to reach for you instead, lightning sparking to his fingertips and he feels the familiar festering of magic beneath his skin. it pulses and blisters and aches with the need to touch - to ignite.

the possessive desire to be your heart is the strongest in these small moments that make his magic pressure increase. he could still perform its primal function; reach inside your thoracic cavity and, viscera in hand, pump the blood himself. blood is no deterrent to him, and the warmth of your heart would feel nice against his skin.

if he were to do that then he would be the origin of your love, of your soul - the performance of the adoration of life.

he would have full control over you; your heart sovereign to him. and in the moments when he questions his purpose you would have no voice to tell him otherwise. his anger is still his and you're still his and everything would be -

perfect.

scaramouche wants to vomit even at the idea.

he balks at how far his self-preservation will go, that he would even consider consuming you.

he closes his hand tight, knuckles turning white as he crushes the magic in his fist, purple lightning throwing shadows across his face in rebellion as he smothers it out with force alone.

it’s only when he opens his hand that the sticky-sweet trickle of ichor prickles down his hand, dripping from the crescent nails carved into his palm. it drops silver and gold onto the covers - dangerously close to your head like a sick offering. his love for you would wane on the obsessive; an overly religious priest and his unanswering god.

if he were to indulge in his power and desires unmitigated, scaramouche knows that his unchanging ways would put you in danger, that he would stifle and snuff you out like he had his magic. his anger would consume him, and then he would consume you; He, your singularity at the cost of your autonomy.

the warmth of the lightning and all his shifting must have woken you up and, without opening your eyes you sling an arm around his waist, your face pressing into his hip.

despite every nerve in his body lighting up in alarm, despite how little he knows of love and how that gives him weakness, gives way to his leaking hate - he presses his forearm to your crown in response. his touch is tentative and soft so as not to wake you, his palms up to keep it from dirtying you.

your hair is as soft as your skin and that makes him weak. a weak, weak puppet of a man whose hollow chest convulses with magic and fear and love when you nuzzle closer.

his assessment still stands, that a heart is no better than the other organs surrounding it; each with their own specified function, each doing their own thing. independent but still working for the whole. a collective.

but you are a foreign body to his system, and if he were to take you in you would become no better than the other organs that line his stomach; decorative, if only useful when he decides he needs you - a sick heart.

ultimately nothing has changed and scaramouche has come to an impasse. if this is what he is now, if this is what he’s come to - neither argument has budged and his identity remains split into two.

he's afraid . terrified. horrified.

but then he remembers what you would always tell him and while the fear itself doesn’t lessen, he becomes more confident.

among all the things he’s read in your library, your words trump all the medical knowledge he could have ever known. emotions stuffed between words like handwritten notes between pages let him know he’s doing good. that he’s doing well.

you speak of adoration and how much you love him. of how it’s ok. that it's normal to be scared in love. that it's normal to measure and prioritize different things. that it's ok to be, and that his lungs aren’t collapsing when his adrenaline increases, and that when his magic circulates faster than usual his heart won’t pop.

your words make him feel full in a way that his crass personality and violent temperament would have closed away otherwise. buried deep in his heart beneath his rage and disdain. and the way you press kisses to his forehead, your fingers intertwining with his, the back of his hand pressing against your cheek makes him feel sated in a way that he’s only read in romance.

your blush would surely be mirrored on his face if he had the capacity to.

( he's always been fascinated by it. that by some god-forsaken secret of the human anatomy instead of leaking from the tiny holes in your skin (pores,) the blood instead turns your complexion a pretty pink.

scaramouche finds his life threaded by complexities and hypocrisy, and in this newest crisis of his he, too, is no different in that regard. if only more volatile in his disposition.

but even then a part of him wants to keep trying. that he can one day be your heart, and you can be his. neither one nor the other.

so until then he will keep trying to better himself and learn from you.)

yes, there is a muscle within the mortal anatomy that beats continuously and unconsciously, and despite all his tries to understand it -

he's still learning.

every day i wake up and drink my silly little coffee while God eats my heart like a pomegranate in front of me

"Reaper Man" cover :>

Becoming Animal

This was the main part of my thesis from last year, an exploration of my experience growing up being encouraged to leave behind the connection to nature I had as a kid, and now my journey into reforming that connection.

writing more reddie poetry here in quarantine, friends (can y'all see I’m projecting heavily?) open the pics for better quality

Silver Light

Note: *cough cough* because he's giving me such a hard time lately. Thanks to @last-words-ofashootingstar for helping me with the direction to take this and her Shells series was a bit of influence too

Siren! Seonghwa x gender neutral! reader

1k plus words

slight blood drinking is the only thing to warn of that I'm aware of

“Never venture near the ocean after dark”

“If you accidentally ever do go near the ocean, never, ever look anyone in the eyes while there”

It was what you always heard from your parents. The warning messages cryptic and without further elaboration despite the attempts that you made to pry more information to satisfy the gnawing curiosity in your gut.

Tonight you were sitting in your bedroom. Tired from the birthday festivities that were held at your home to celebrate your turning eighteen.

Mischief was something that was flowering in your mind. Trouble calling to you because the world seemed so small around you. Metaphorically you were itching to break the confines of your reality with the strength of your own hands but you weren't able to lest you'd lose the approval that you seeked from your family.

Weren't you old enough to hang out with your friends for the night?

Did your parents really think that you were not responsible enough to know right from wrong?

How could they not know that they had planted the seeds of rebelliousness and that with every day the roots were silently deepening?

Of course the most radical thing you could do was to outright go to the ocean and see that the worst thing that could happen was to see the water washing against the shore beneath the moonlight. It was a starting point to break out you told yourself.

From here you would start pushing to discover yourself and the world.

You breathed a deep breath as you slipped out the window of your home. Landing on the ground with an ‘Oof’ before gathering your senses to venture through the darkness of your family's property.

Everyone was sound asleep fortunately for you. Your heartbeat quickened as you made your way through the woods that separated your home from the shoreline that your parents had warned you of.

The sound of waves washing against the shore seemed to whisper to you. A seducing sound that caresses all the way down your ears to your spine. Softly reassuring you to come closer. That nothing could hurt you here.

Eventually you made it to the beach. Sand stinging at your feet as it sifted through your shoes with each step. Somehow your heart soars. Feeling a sense of freedom that coaxed a smile cross your face.

You were in awe as you looked up at the stars overhead and spanning across the ocean. The glittering spectacle that peppered the black canvas of sky inspired your heart to race again.

There was something magical about it all. So was the gleaming silver light reflected from the moon that colored the black water that occasionally crashed against the shoreline, the gleaming streaks of light dancing across the restless surface.

You were about to sit down to admire the forbidden scene before you. But something through the corner of your eye captured your attention. The feeling of an invisible band tightening around your throat made your blood run cold.

Briefly you told yourself that it was nothing. Only the figment of your imagination trying to chase you back to the warmth and comfort of your bed.

But the movement surfaced beneath the waves again. Gracefully emerging from the black depths was a humanoid form.

Your heart lapsed beating for what seemed longer than a beat. An ethereal face that was bewitching and unnaturally sultry at the same time was making you wonder if you were really awake.

“If you accidentally ever do go near the ocean never, ever look anyone in the eyes while there”

The warning repeated itself in your mind. Urging the fight or flight response to take hold.

The being moved closer to the shore. The features appearing both masculine and feminine at the same time. Fascinating you despite your better judgement. Or lack of judgement.

“Don't be frightened, little one.” The unidentified humanoid cooed in a voice that caressed your rattled nerves.

“What are you?” You could barely make out your own words coming from your tight throat suffocating from what could not rationally be explained.

“I do believe introductions are in order right now. It's unbelievably rude to ask what I am as if I'm not a valid entity.”

Now you could tell that the being was a male. His elegant form swimming onto the shore and smoothly lying on his side on the wet sand as if he were a feminine deity long ago worshipped by the Greeks.

What was really shocking to you was the absence of his legs. Instead the male had a gracefully curved tail with two fins. Just like the movie adaptations of mermaids.

“I am Seonghwa.” He spoke with a soft, commanding voice that silently instilled into you that you should not try to leave prematurely.

He looked at you expectantly. His head propped onto his hand and lending another undercurrent of allure to his persona.

“I'm- I'm y/n…” You choke out. Afraid of what you didn't understand.

“Such a beautiful name, you're precious like a pearl.”

Then you did it. Locking eyes with his hypnotic orbs and unconsciously losing yourself in the galaxy of the darkness inside of him.

A chilling smirk tugged at his lips. Knowing that you had fallen victim to his unique gift, the gentle call of his soulful eyes that could lead any human to their death without complaint. A rare power that most sirens never possessed.

'Come closer to me, I won't hurt you. I promise. I only need a little something from you'

He purred telepathically. Thoroughly intrigued by you. The sweet energy that you gave off was like a drug. His platinum hued tail unfurling with a graceful sway that complemented the ocean’s waves that serenely lapped around his calmly lounging form.

You stepped closer to him and kneeled by him. Entranced by the depths of his eyes. Drawing you in just like a tumultuous whirlpool.

He knew now that you were the one that could free him from the prison of the ocean. Allowing him the freedom to roam the land that he had long dreamed of exploring.

The smile on his face was alluring and you were falling for it just like a fly flying into the enticing sweetness of a venus flytrap's nectar. His pearly sharp fangs catching your heightened curiosity.

Spellbound, you reached out and traced your finger against the curves of his fangs. A low chuckle vibrating in Seonghwa's throat. Your hypnotic fascination with his fangs was adorable to him.

You gasped inadvertently when you advertently pricked your finger against the razors edge of his fang. His tongue immediately darting out to lick the blood from your finger. The action was lewd, prompting a blush to spread across your cheeks and color your cheeks.

His eyes dark with undertones of desire as he locked eyes with you.

'You may go to sleep now. You won't remember this.’

Another telepathic message went into your head. Drowsiness washed over you almost instantly.

In a beat you were unconscious on the wet sand. Sound asleep and unaware of his luminous tail melting away. A pair of long legs instead replacing it. He groans in slight discomfort as his body changed from the power of your sweet blood.

Another dark smile crossing his face as he looked down at your sleeping form. Deciding to carry you home to your warm bed and raid your closet before venturing into town.