18 Works by hyperphonic
Listing Works
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Dorian clears his throat, startling Solas out of his thoughts.
“Find somewhere else to look, old man.” He pauses to snatch a flute of champagne off a passing platter. “Lest someone beside my good self notices how the Inquisitor’s serving man stares at her.”
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consummation by hyperphonic
Fandoms: Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games)
17 May 2025
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“No one before has ever touched me like this.” He admits into the cloister of her embrace, pressing closer still as she combs through his mane.
“No one?” What a lonely existence it must be, as a hound of war.
“Only you.” Fiadh rolls this new context about in her head for a moment, considering what must surely be the agony of millennia spent without touch unmotivated by violence or control.
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“According to our intelligence, we’re only a half day behind you.” Her voice barely clears the cicadas. “Have you caught my scent yet, I wonder, Dread Wolf?”
He doesn’t answer, and the Graves don’t see fit to share his secrets with her.
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“The Princess left me with a handful of words for you, Hero.” Like a bow drawn to tension, his focus snaps back into place. “If you’d like to hear them.” Sheep’s clothing is shed so easily, wool and the soft scent of lanolin left behind when Link steps forward, eyes narrowed. Impa is clearly smart, should already know the answer that builds behind his tongue. “But you need to be willing to risk your life for her before I share them.”
He almost rolls his eyes.
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“I waited for you for hours you know.” She pouts up at him, knife pressed firmly to the soft spot just below his sternum. Astarion swallows thickly, caught off guard in equal parts by the point of her blade and the same sooty lashes he’d so feverishly imagined during every trancing moment of the last two weeks.
Fuck.
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“The handmaidens are beside themselves to see you in your uniform tomorrow.” Zelda blithely smiles, tongue in cheek even as she wonders as to the taste of his. Her appointed knight raises blond eyebrows, mug halfway to full lips before he pauses to roll her words over in his head.
“Are they now?”
“Oh yes,” He sips, throat bobbing with a thoughtful swallow. Green eyes follow the motion ravenously, but if Link feels her gaze on him he doesn’t let on. “It’s all Marion could talk about this morning.” His mouth pulls up into a smirk, and Zelda realizes too late the mischief brewing behind bright blue eyes. She’s inadvertently walked into a trap.
“And you?” Her knight drops his two syllables into the air between them like a remote bomb from the Sheikah slate.
“And I?” Zelda’s heart races as she strives to play coy, painfully aware of how low her bodice dips. Greedy lungs beg for his secondhand air, bidding her chest rise and earning a brief flare of Link’s nostrils. Hyrule’s hope leans forward, wolflike as he halves the space between them to murmur.
“Are you beside yourself to see me in my uniform?”
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It’s all over so quickly, for the agony of months spent chasing after the lingering vanilla and cinnamon smell of Zelda’s hair. Blood blooms at his feet, falling in sticky clumps deeper and deeper down the water column; Link wonders how much of her blood Demise had planned on spilling atop his altar.
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“My Princess?” In the mirror, her face is bright red: she had said that. Her stomach twists painfully and she clamps down on him just as he squeezes at the sides of her neck. “Say it.”
“Your Princess,” Zelda gasps, eyes trained on his reflection. “Your Princess— I’m your Princess.”
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Her appointed knight steps away from their horses, back still turned to the hunting party, and cuts Zelda a dark stare. Her cunt clenches needily, she knows what that look means. His Princess. The audacious endearment sits heavily on the back of her tongue, burning like bile.
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The sky begins to darken into a cornflower blue that would cost no less than an arm and leg at the Kochi Dye Shop, throwing cream colored snow into stark relief. His Princess turned Priestess steps out of Link’s arms just as the first few hints of lavender begin to bleed up from the horizon, he aches with the distance immediately.
“I suppose,” Zelda’s voice is impossibly soft, thin in a way he’s come to know means she’s close to tears, “it’s time for me to begin.”
The Crown Princess of Hyrule inhales slowly through her nose when her feet first touch sacred water. Bare fingers twitch almost imperceptibly against his palm before pulling away, and Link watches with his heart in his mouth as Zelda smoothly steps down into the spring.
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“I’ve been watching you train in the morning.” His heart stops. “I have a very good view from Hylia’s altar.” He’s going to burst into holy flame, could swear he feels Dinraal’s fire licking at the base of his spine when Zelda flattens her palm atop his wildly beating heart. “You’re very good with that sword of yours.” He’s still struggling to process her words when Hyrule’s Princess lets her hand drag down to snap his belt buckle against trembling abdominals, and has only just gotten a grip on his heart rate by the time she turns on one heel to strut deeper into the Divine Beast.
Hylia help him.
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“Sakura.” Sasuke extends a hand across the broken earth between them and watches with wildly spinning tomoe as Sakura’s pulse picks up speed, “come here.”
She obeys.
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Well-loved wood creaks underneath Sakura’s palms, and even though Sasuke wants to continue to tease her, he’s not particularly keen on buying a new dining room table while they’re still living in her tiny apartment.
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Sasuke’s reintegration into Konoha is a faltering, nonlinear process: it starts with the transition from summer to autumn, leaves turning from green to gold along with the tension draining from overworked muscles.
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Sasuke teaches Sakura his clan’s flagship jutsu one misty autumn morning on the very same dock his father had taught him.
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She never does get to teach the little life in her womb how to weaponize patience, never gets to teach her twins how to braid gold into their hair to welcome autumn in, or watch Anakin lead them through the same lightsaber forms he’d loved so much.
However, what Padmé does get to do is watch as her children tear through the galaxy with all the force of springtime monsoons in the lake country and bring their father home.
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“She’s very handy with a hex wrench,” his Grandfather nods, one hand darting up to push wild curls (the same as those on Ben’s own head) from his face, “good choice.”
Ben swears he’s going to kill him again, even takes a step towards the grinning blue apparition, but with a cheeky smirk and a waggle of mechanical fingers his target is gone.
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No, Rey of Jakku decidedly does not miss Leia Organa’s wayward son.
(Except for the fact that she really, truly does).
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That night she dreams of the sands of Jakku, and Ben Solo draped in elaborate folds of fabric like the ones Anakin had told her to be a staple of the Naberrie house.