#ganimpa

[rawliverandgoronspice]

@fieldsofbran87 🫡​

[rawliverandgoronspice]

are we finally going to write Impgan smut

I am so curious

hahaha sure!

So, in reality, this document has completely different ideas crammed in there, with bits of several ideas either outline or somewhat developed. One of them is about a "Into The Flash" kind of deal, where Impa chose to trap herself with Ganondorf in the seal to prevent him from breaking it, and about them killing each other over and over, or loosening their guard before rising it back up again. The other idea was more OoT-related, and it's about a fling in their youth during the war, while they're both bargaining in a neutral zone for supplies, and then a second fling years later while Ganondorf is at the castle --both of those flings some kind of power play that ends up giving them a comfort or a reassurance they may have needed at this moment of their life.

tbh I don't think I'll go forward with either of those unfortunately :(

I don't have a ton of actual text, but I'll try to share what I have.

Everything about the makeshift camp was uncomfortable. The weather itself was dry and stuffy, a layer of chalk covering every goods to sale and every body trying to barter as Death Mountain grumbled on the horizon. The merchants had this air of quiet resentment about them; the youngest enjoyed the power they believed they held, and the eldest were brisk and angry, unwilling to negotiate, their eyes always darting to the clients’ weapons, bared and clean. Nobody enjoyed commerce with Tabantha, starting with Tabantha itself, but it had to be suffered through. They lived too far off the main regions of conflict to be worth raiding, and the labor that wheat demanded made warfare with its lords deeply unpractical. Impa wasn’t there for wheat. There were trade agreements she was meant to forward in the name of her village, and she’d buy a shipment of datura flowers for the purposes of the Temple —but her real mission was far more obvious. The gerudo king broke bread with three other warriors, in the shade of a tree burnt in the latest forest fire. He was tall; the hardest thing to miss in the entire assembly. He was also lean, sharp like a talon, his eyes glittering with ennui, mirth, powdered gold. His hair was loose, longer than Impa’s, dahlias-crimson. Younger than her too. He didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t, by far, the most dangerous warrior there. A cat-like indolence that strayed far past standard royal hubris and landed into open provocation. He wouldn’t get a fight, not here. But people stared. He seemed to relish it, that people stared. That Impa stared.