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"You need me," Ghirahim whispered against Link’s ear, so close that Link could feel the tight stretch of lips on his cheek.
Hazily, Link disagreed. If anything, he thought he needed less of… this. Dark fingers danced along his arms, claws catching lightly against his skin like flint barely brushing steel. He knew by now just how easily those claws could slip between tender and tearing. The threat of fangs hovered behind every kiss, caresses leaving bruises or scratches or scars—but not always.
Not always, and that teetering sense of uncertainty was the closest Link ever felt now to anticipation. Shivering, he let his head fall back limply on Ghirahim’s shoulder, sweat sliding down his spine from the heat of the man encasing him. No, the moment any of this became a need, he'd be in real trouble.
"You need me."
White hair brushed across Link’s neck as Ghirahim leaned in over him, his confidence more than sweeping away Link's own dim uncertainty. The self-titled demon lord had always carried himself with the assurance of an actor, belonging without question wherever he chose to stand—even here on this intimate stage, with an audience of one. His claws slid from Link’s arms to travel across his chest, tracing out tiny shapes that might have been diamonds or might have been triangles stacked atop each other.
Staring at nothing through half-lidded eyes, Link wondered whether Ghirahim could even comprehend the fog of indifference that had gripped him since his "victory" over Demise—the haze coating him like a film, dulling him to joy and despair without discernment. It was hard to imagine that Ghirahim had ever felt any emotion to less than its full completion from the way they thundered through him, dragging him along in their current… or was that just how it looked from the outside? Who could ever believe an actor on a stage?
Whatever he understood, Ghirahim had proven himself the only one capable of burning that fog away, and that was what mattered to Link. The smooth, shallow planes of a gem jutted uncomfortably against his back, pulsing with a heat that intensified slowly like water set to the boil. At the base of his outstretched neck sat the barest impression of teeth. Each tiny point of contact burned with hot potential, resting. Waiting.
Ghirahim went still.
The moment hovered high-pitched in the air, and Link’s better judgment at last reared its inconvenient head. Anxiety fluttered in his chest, a miracle all its own, and he licked his lips.
"Ghira—"
As if his voice was the signal, both teeth and claws sank in together. Link cut off with a wavering gasp, the fire that had encased him licking against his skin. It hurt—and it was better, so much better, than the tasteless haze burning away before it.
Drawing back, Ghirahim pressed a kiss on the spot where his fangs had pierced almost apologetically, the blood that welled up beneath him staining his white lips red. Meanwhile, his claws continued carving in the same angular pattern they had traced out before, gouging lines Link couldn’t see across his torso. Whether Ghirahim had marked Link for the goddess or himself, he wouldn’t know until the next morning when he looked in the mirror.
Panting, Link tore himself from Ghirahim’s grasp only to whirl back into it, fingers scrabbling at his diamond chest until Ghirahim gripped him by the wrists to cut off his desperate fumbling. He wanted more of that heat. All of it. Fingers tightened one by one until Link's bones began to creak, and he drank it all in—the pain, the heat, each burning finger wrapped around him. He wanted to be scorched, swallowed, consumed—wanted that haze banished from his mind once and for all. He wanted—no, needed—
Ghirahim drew back, surveying him with a crimson grin.
"You need me," he said, satisfied.
Hazily, Link agreed.