#Hollow Descent AU

[shaiyasstuff]

sapere aude | sylus | preface/chapter one

synopsis : He promised to protect you. But guilt doesn’t protect. It confuses the living for the dead—and love for something far more dangerous. content : light angst, slow-burn, mentions of death, 50/50 cannon!au, reader is mc’s sister

parts | one | two | three | four

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

It was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—the sound of boots against concrete, echoing down damp, narrow halls like a cruel lullaby. A sound that might’ve meant nothing once. A hallway. A late night. Someone going home.

But now, it was a requiem.

Every step was a countdown. Every echo, a reminder.

Your body hung from chains, swaying slightly with each shallow breath. The pain had dulled somewhere between the blows and the blood loss. Now there was only exhaustion—a bone-deep kind that settled in your marrow and refused to let go.

You didn’t cry anymore. Fear had long turned into a quiet, shivering ache. Something wordless. Something hollow.

The blindfold pressed against your skin, wet with sweat and blood, but you barely felt it now.

“P-Please,” you whispered, or tried to. The word cracked in your throat, weak and worn and useless.

The reply came sharp, a voice made of metal and contempt.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Then came the blow.

Your body folded, something hot and metallic flooding your mouth as you choked on blood. You felt it drip down your chin, staining what little of you was left untouched.

The chains groaned as you sagged forward. The cuffs bit into skin already shredded. Your arms were dead weight. Your legs had forgotten how to exist.

There was no fight left in you. Only the bitter taste of survival, drawn out too long.

Then—

The door opened.

It was just a sound. Just hinges and wood. But it broke the rhythm. Broke the air.

Silence followed, thick and waiting.

“B-Boss! We didn’t think—”

The voice cut off.

Not in silence. In a scream.

And then—nothing. Not even footsteps. Not breath. Not sound.

Stillness.

You flinched. Instinct. Reflex. The body’s last protest.

But you didn’t know why. Not yet.

Not until you heard him.

“Luke. Kieran. Free her.”

The voice was quiet. Even. Unrushed.

And yet, it carved the air clean.

You heard movement. Keys. Chains. Someone’s breath catching. The sound of metal surrendering.

Then you were falling.

But arms caught you.

Warm. Steady.

A chest beneath your cheek. A heartbeat—too fast.

“T-Tha—”

“Don’t thank us yet,” came a voice, younger, clipped. Edged.

Another voice followed. A twin reflection. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

But you were already fading.

The world tilted. Softened. Disappeared.

And just before you slipped beneath the dark, you heard it. That voice again. The one that had ordered the world to stop.

“Who is she, boss?”

A pause.

A breath.

“…A debt I’m supposed to pay.”

But even then, as sleep dragged you under, some part of you heard the truth that lingered beneath the words.

‘Or maybe… a sin I was meant to atone for.’

—•

Evening settled over the skyline like a bruise—purple and bruised gold, too quiet for a city that once knew how to scream. From the rooftop, the world looked deceptively calm.

Sylus stood at the edge, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat, a single coin turning slowly between his fingers. He always carried it. Not for luck. But because it reminded him that everything had two sides.

He didn’t hear Kieran’s approach. Only the shift in air.

“Boss,” Kieran said, voice tense. “There’s a problem.”

A pause.

Luke joined a breath later. “It’s Carson. He took a girl. She’s still alive, but it’s bad.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just flicked the coin upward, watching it catch the last light of the sun. It spun like a blade, glinting—then fell back into his palm.

“Where.”

“Sub-level two.”

He moved without another word.

The stairs echoed with the sound of his descent. Steady. Inescapable. Like judgment wrapped in leather and steel.

He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He already knew.

Carson was dead. Or he would be soon.

The hallway reeked of old blood and mildew, the kind of smell that sank into skin. He walked through it like it was nothing. Like he belonged to it.

The door opened.

And time stopped.

The first thing he saw was blood.

Then—

You.

Hanging from the ceiling like something discarded. Forgotten. Unmade.

Your body trembled, barely. Still fighting, even in ruin.

It should’ve been a stranger. It was always strangers.

But it wasn’t.

It was you.

His breath caught, a sharp, involuntary thing that stole the space from his lungs.

Why is it her?

It echoed in his chest. Unwelcome. Unforgiving.

He didn’t allow the emotion to show. Didn’t let his hand twitch. His jaw tighten.

Only his voice broke the silence. Cold. Measured.

“Luke. Kieran. Free her.”

He didn’t glance at Carson’s remains. Not again. They didn’t matter.

Only you did.

You fell.

Kieran caught you.

Even unconscious, you looked like resistance incarnate—shattered, but not surrendered. A porcelain doll cracked by grief, still managing to hold her shape.

“Who is she, boss?” Kieran asked, quieter now.

Sylus didn’t answer at first.

He stared at you. At the blood. At the mess someone else had made of you.

“…Miss Hunter’s sister,” he said at last. The words burned more than they should have. Like ash he couldn’t swallow.

Luke exhaled slowly. “She had a sister?”

“She didn’t talk about her,” Kieran murmured.

The hallway swallowed the rest.

There were ghosts here. Too many. Too close.

They carried you back, steps careful, arms too gentle for the kind of men they were.

The medic arrived wordlessly. She didn’t speak. Just worked. Quiet and practiced.

Sylus stood outside, back against the wall, fingers curled tightly into fists.

When the medic emerged, she nodded once. “She’ll live.”

He nodded back. Said nothing. Then stepped inside.

The room was dim. Shadowed.

You lay motionless, wrapped in bandages and silence.

He moved toward the bed slowly. Each step drawn by something he couldn’t name.

And then—he saw you. Fully.

Your features were a reflection. Not perfect. But enough.

His breath stilled.

He hadn’t expected the resemblance to hurt.

And it did. Sharp and surgical.

The same jaw. The same eyelashes. The ghost of a woman he couldn’t save, buried beneath the bruises and blood of another.

You looked too much like her.

He’d watched you from afar. Always from afar. Mephisto’s footage. The corners of crowds. Rain-streaked windows in cities that had forgotten what light was.

He told himself it was enough.

But guilt has long arms.

And tonight, they’d wrapped around your throat.

He reached out once, fingers trembling in the space between your cheek and the air. But he didn’t touch you.

Couldn’t.

Instead, his hand curled into a fist and fell back to his side.

He sat.

And waited.

His presence didn’t fill the room. It pressed against it.

A vow unspoken. A promise he didn’t deserve to make.

Still, he kept watch.

Not because you needed him.

But because it was the only thing left he could do.

Light bled in soft through narrow curtains, pale and reluctant, as if even the morning wasn’t ready to face what lingered in the room.

You stirred.

Slowly. Like rising from beneath water.

Your body ached. Not with sharpness—but with the heaviness of something that had been broken and stitched back together without your permission.

The ceiling was unfamiliar—dark beams carved with patterns too intricate to be decorative. There was no sterile white light. No beeping monitors. Only hush. Only warmth.

And him.

He sat beside the bed, still as stone.

At first, you thought he was part of the silence. A shadow carved into the corner of the room.

But then your eyes adjusted. And his gaze was already on you.

Silver hair caught the morning light like something delicate, ethereal. But his eyes—

Red. Deep. Unreadable.

They didn’t flinch when you looked at him. Didn’t soften.

He was watching you the way someone might watch the final flicker of a candle—distant, resigned. As though he expected you to disappear.

Your throat burned when you tried to speak. The sound died before it found shape.

He moved, then. Smooth. Practiced. Like he’d done this before. Like he’d waited for this moment longer than he cared to admit.

A glass of water. Held out.

“Don’t talk,” he said. Quiet. Firm. Not unkind, but final.

You took it. Because your body was too tired to do anything else. Because his voice left no room for resistance.

The glass touched your lips. Cool. Steadying.

You drank, and his eyes never left you.

There was no pity in them.

No cruelty either.

Just something still. Like regret that had forgotten how to ache out loud.

Then—a knock.

Another voice. Familiar. Steady.

“Boss. We investigated.”

He didn’t look away from you.

“Come in.”

The door opened. A man stepped in. Young, sharp-eyed. Startled when he saw you—but only for a moment.

“Carson,” he said. “Tried to sell her. Took five others. Kieran’s cleaning it up.”

You saw it.

The shift in Sylus’s posture. Not movement—he didn’t move.

But something cold gathered in the room. Like breath freezing in the lungs.

“I see,” he said.

And nothing else needed to be said.

You knew then. Carson was already dust. The kind of dead that didn’t leave echoes.

Still, the younger man hesitated. “We don’t deal in that kind of business. Someone’s pushing. Instigating.”

Sylus turned to him, and the man straightened under the weight of that gaze.

“You know what to do.”

“Understood.”

And then the room was quiet again.

The man left.

The silence returned.

But now it was different.

Now, it had shape. It had weight. And it was sitting across from you, watching every breath you took as if it might be your last.

You tried again.

“W-Who…”

But he raised a hand. Not abrupt. Just enough to quiet you.

“I’ll explain everything,” he said. “But not now.”

His tone didn’t threaten. It promised.

“For now,” he continued, voice shifting ever so slightly—less frost, more gravity—“Just rest.”

You looked into his eyes then, and for the first time, you saw it.

Not safety.

Not warmth.

But stability.

And for someone who’d forgotten what solid ground felt like, that was almost enough.

“You’re safe with me,” he said.

And somehow, you believed him.

Not because of the words.

But because of the silence that held them.

—•

When you woke again, the light had shifted.

It was afternoon now. Slanted gold filtering through the narrow space between curtains, brushing the bed with a kind of fragile tenderness.

As if the sun knew how easily you might break.

You were alone.

And somehow, that felt heavier than being watched.

You sat up slowly, the ache in your ribs blooming sharp under the movement. Your breath caught. Your muscles trembled. But you moved.

You had to.

The room was too still. The silence too complete. You couldn’t bear to drown in it again.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. Your feet were bare. The world felt far away.

But you took a step.

Then another.

The hallway was quiet—dimly lit, lined with heavy bookshelves and gold-edged sconces that cast soft shadows along the walls. It smelled like wood and old paper. Like memories.

Then—

Laughter.

Faint. Two voices, low and familiar. It reached you like a thread in the dark, something warm and fraying.

You followed it.

Not because you trusted it.

But because you didn’t want to be alone.

You found them in what looked like a living room. Wide. Open. Wood-paneled walls. Weapons scattered like afterthoughts. A fire lit in the corner, though it didn’t crackle. It simply burned.

Luke was lounging on a couch, flipping a knife with casual precision. Kieran stood by the window, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

They turned when they saw you.

“Hey—she’s up,” Kieran said, voice light but edged with caution.

Luke sat up, brows lifted. “You should be resting.”

You didn’t answer. Just stood there, gripping the doorway like it was the only thing holding you up.

“Who… are you?” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

But it didn’t matter. They heard.

“I’m Kieran,” the one by the window said. “That’s Luke. My twin. Don’t hold it against me.”

Luke grinned. “Nice to meet you, I guess. Still breathing—so that’s a win.”

You didn’t smile. Not really.

But something loosened in your chest.

Kieran stepped forward. Not close. Just enough. “We were the ones who pulled you out.”

You nodded. Slowly. The words hung in the air between you, unspoken.

They saw you broken. They saw you bleeding.

You couldn’t look at them long. There was too much memory behind your eyes.

You glanced around the room instead, drinking in the details. The normalcy. The warmth.

“Why am I here?” you asked.

Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because one of ours forgot what the rules were. Took you. Tried to sell you.”

A pause.

Kieran’s voice was softer. “Boss handled it.”

That word again.

Boss.

The one who didn’t smile. The one who said, You’re safe with me.

Your fingers curled slightly at the memory.

“He’ll explain everything,” Kieran added. “Eventually.”

Luke pushed off the couch, stretching with a casual groan. “In the meantime, wanna tour the place? Beats sitting around waiting for answers you won’t like.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

Because doing nothing meant thinking. And you weren’t ready for that.

They guided you through the halls, slow and careful. Kieran stayed close, steadying you when your steps faltered. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

Luke talked enough for both of them—spinning stories of near-deaths and absurd luck, of missions gone sideways and rescues pulled off by the skin of their teeth.

His words danced with levity, but there was steel under them. Like someone who knew too much about endings.

You saw the way Kieran watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Not out of curiosity. Out of calculation.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

Because he didn’t trust what your presence meant.

Eventually, they led you into a grand dining hall. Tall windows. Carved chairs. A chandelier that caught the light like frozen starlight.

It should have felt like safety.

It didn’t.

It felt like a memory you hadn’t earned.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Luke said, smirking. “We still eat like animals.”

You made a sound—something almost like a laugh.

Almost.

They kept walking. The manor was vast. Worn in places. Lived in. This wasn’t a kingdom. It was a sanctuary built out of necessity and quiet rebellion.

They weren’t soldiers. Not really. Not anymore.

Problem solvers, they called themselves.

Saviors, sometimes.

Monsters, on the worst nights.

By the time you reached the final corridor, your body ached with every breath. But you didn’t ask to stop.

Not until you reached a tall, unmarked door.

Luke knocked. “Boss. She’s awake.”

Silence.

Then—a sound. Barely audible.

A hum. Permission.

Luke opened the door and grinned at you over his shoulder. “End of the tour. Five stars or we riot.”

You didn’t smile.

But you stepped forward anyway.

Because this was the part you couldn’t avoid.

The truth was waiting on the other side.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Softly. Decisively.

You were alone with him again.

The air in the room was different—cooler, denser, like the stillness that hangs in cathedrals long after the last prayer has been spoken. A sanctuary built of shadows and silence.

Sylus sat behind a wide desk, fingers poised over open folders and screens that glowed faintly with information you didn’t understand. He didn’t glance up right away.

But you could feel it.

The tension wound tight beneath his skin.

The weight of a thousand things left unsaid.

Finally, he looked up.

Crimson eyes. Cold. Constant. And yet, somewhere beneath the surface, a flicker of something else.

Recognition. Or maybe… guilt.

He closed the folder with a quiet snap and folded his hands in front of him.

“Come,” he said. “I don’t bite.”

There was no warmth in his voice.

But no danger, either.

You stepped forward. Slowly. One careful foot after the other. The ache in your body was quieter now. Manageable. Just another scar trying to form.

You sat.

He watched.

His gaze didn’t pierce. It held. Like a question he wasn’t ready to ask aloud.

“I’m sure you have a million questions,” he said, his voice level, as if this were a meeting, not a reckoning. “But you only need one answer.”

A pause.

“I knew your sister.”

The words landed like a knife laid gently on the table between you.

Not a threat.

A truth.

Your throat closed around the weight of it. You hadn’t said her name. Hadn’t brought her up.

But he had.

And somehow, that made it real.

“How?” you asked.

It came out quieter than you meant. Fragile. But he didn’t mock it.

He took a breath. Measured. Hollow.

“We were… close,” he said. And for a moment, the mask slipped.

Just a crack.

Enough for something old to bleed through.

You saw it then—not clearly, but like a reflection on dark water. Her smile in his memory. Her voice in his silence. Something broken between them, never spoken aloud.

And maybe never forgiven.

You swallowed. “And Carson?”

His eyes sharpened, the crimson in them flickering like embers. “Gone.”

Just that. One word.

Final. Absolute.

You nodded, though the ache in your chest didn’t ease.

Then—his voice again. Low. Heavier now.

“I made her a promise.”

You looked at him, heart thudding.

“What kind of promise?”

His hand twitched—barely noticeable. Then he removed his glasses and folded them neatly on the desk.

That gesture said more than his words.

His eyes were bare now. Unshuttered.

“Before she died,” he said, “she made me swear I’d protect you.”

The room went still.

Not from silence. From memory.

You thought of your sister’s voice.

The way she’d held your hand when you were small. The last time you saw her. The way her shadow still curled around the corners of your grief.

You had cried for her in a stranger’s arms. Grieved her behind closed doors. And now here he was.

The man who hadn’t been at the funeral.

But who had carried a piece of her in silence.

You didn’t know whether to hate him or thank him.

So you said nothing.

Because there was nothing safe enough to say.

“All you need to know,” he said, voice softer now—like the edge of a blade dulled by time—“is that you’re not here by accident. And you’re not alone.”

Your breath shook.

Not from fear.

But because a part of you wanted—desperately—to believe him.

His words echoed like wind through a hollow place:

I promised her I’d protect you.

You pressed your hand to your chest, as if to quiet the ache rising there. As if to keep from falling apart all over again.

You wanted to ask her what to do.

But the dead never answer.

Only the living carry their promises.

And sometimes, those promises look like men with red eyes and silence where softness should be.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

His gaze dropped to the desk, to the place where his folded glasses rested—still, undisturbed, like something sacred he didn’t want to touch.

“I should have known.”

The words were quieter than the room.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the admission, but by the weight behind it.

“I should have seen the signs.” His voice was steady, but too careful. Measured like someone standing at the edge of a confession he didn’t know how to give. “Carson was… slipping. And I let it slide.”

He finally looked at you, and for a moment, you saw it.

Not power. Not steel.

But something quieter. Guilt, raw and unfinished. The kind that carves itself into the bones and settles in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“I trusted the wrong man,” he said. “And you paid the price.”

You didn’t speak.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out. Grief. Rage. Or worse—understanding.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, fingers lacing together.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness,” he said, and this time, his voice wasn’t steady at all. “That would be… self-serving.”

The pause that followed was heavy.

“But I will say this—” His gaze held yours now, unflinching. “What happened to you will never happen again. Not under my roof. Not under my command.”

There was a promise in his voice. One made of steel and silence.

But beneath it, something else.

A tremor.

A flicker.

Like the moment before a dam breaks.

You stared at him—really stared—and realized something you hadn’t before.

He wasn’t just protecting you because of your sister.

He was atoning.

For what, you didn’t know yet.

But you felt it in your chest. The way his words seemed to recoil the moment they left his mouth, as if every syllable had teeth.

“I don’t expect trust,” he added after a moment, softer now. “Not from you. Not anymore.”

He exhaled.

And in that breath, you heard it.

The echo of a man who once made a promise to a dying woman.

And failed.

He sat back in his chair, gaze drifting away once more—toward the window, where dusk had begun to gather along the edges of the sky.

The silence between you stretched again. But this time, it wasn’t sharp.

It was soft.

Frayed.

Wounded.

You lowered your gaze, unsure what to say.

So instead, you simply whispered, “Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It wasn’t absolution.

But it was something.

And in a world like this, where men like Sylus carried ghosts on their shoulders and tried to outrun them with orders and silence, it might have been enough.

Just for tonight.

Night fell slow and uncertain, wrapping the manor in a hush too heavy to be peace.

You stood at the window of your borrowed room, hands resting lightly on the sill. The glass was cold beneath your fingers. Outside, the courtyard flickered with scattered lantern light, their glow trembling against the darkness like breaths you couldn’t catch.

You hadn’t lit the lamp.

There was something comforting about the dark. Something honest.

It didn’t pretend to fix what was broken.

It simply let it be.

You thought he’d left hours ago. After the apology. After the vow laced with guilt and too much restraint.

He hadn’t lingered.

Just turned away, coat whispering behind him, and vanished into the hall with the quiet surety of someone who knew how to disappear.

And yet…

You felt it.

That strange, almost imperceptible pull at the edge of your awareness.

The weight of eyes not cruel, not curious—just there.

You turned, slowly, scanning the room as if the shadows might shift and give him away.

But nothing moved.

Only silence.

You let out a breath. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe your nerves were frayed beyond recognition, making ghosts out of memory and meaning.

You crossed the room, eased into the bed, and pulled the blankets up to your chest. The pillow smelled faintly of smoke and leather. A scent that didn’t belong to you.

You turned onto your side, facing the door. Just in case.

But sleep didn’t come.

It hovered at the edges—teasing, half-formed.

And then—

A whisper of motion.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Didn’t move.

But you heard it. The barely-there shift of air. A coat settling over a chair. The weight of someone sitting down slow, deliberate.

A presence settling like dusk in the corner of the room.

Sylus.

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

But you felt the silence curve around him, reshaping itself. No longer empty. Just… quiet.

You wondered how long he’d been there.

How long he would stay.

You should have been angry. Or afraid. But you weren’t.

Not with him.

Because his silence didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like a vigil.

Like penance.

You let your lashes lower, heart steady but uncertain.

He didn’t think you were awake.

And so, for the first time, you saw him without the armor.

Just a man in a chair.

Posture too still. Hands clasped together as if in prayer—or apology.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor like it had answers he’d never find.

The light from the hall bled faintly beneath the door, gilding the curve of his jaw, the silver of his hair, the hollows beneath his eyes.

He looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

But the kind that came from carrying too much of the past without letting any of it go.

A moment passed.

Then another.

And softly—so softly you almost missed it—he spoke.

“I should’ve come sooner.”

You didn’t know if the words were for you. Or for her.

Maybe both.

He stayed there a long time after that.

Saying nothing more.

Just watching.

Just breathing in the silence like it was the only thing left that didn’t lie.

And eventually, you let yourself sleep.

Not because you trusted him.

But because, somehow, for the first time in days, your heartbeat no longer felt like a countdown.

masterlist

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.5. - The Passion of Lovers

viktorxfemale!reader disgusting yearning continues + something extra ;) gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 7,6K (oops)

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! This chapter is also based on The Horse of the Invisible by William Hope Hodgson and a Call of Cthulhu adventure by the same title. Also, some bases get checked :')

Cross-posted on AO3

—

A rustle of feet, hushed voices, and a general commotion can already be heard from the corridor as you step out—only to find yourself met, eye to eye, with Viktor. You pause upon your threshold, awaiting some indication from him, but he offers only a finger pressed to his lips in a silent gesture. So you lean against the doorframe and wait.

Viktor is not looking at you, nor at anything in particular—his gaze lingers somewhere between your feet and the floorboards, his attention clearly tuned more to sound than to sight. At first, you lower your gaze in kind, but when your eyes settle on his feet—and you notice he has managed to put on shoes—curiosity begins to stir within you.

Your gaze drifts upward, tracing the line of his figure. Viktor is wearing a dressing gown, hastily thrown over his nightshirt, which is only partially buttoned. The collar hangs open, revealing the hollow dip of his chest and the pale stretch of his throat. The sight draws your eyes helplessly—down the faint shadow at his clavicle, the soft rise and fall of his breathing. There is something starkly human about him in this moment. Unarmoured. Unstudied. And something in you aches with it.

"Did it sound real to you?" he asks suddenly, stirring you from your reverie.

You look up, caught. His eyes are already on you, and he’s smiling—softly, knowingly. Heat rises to your face as you avert your gaze, feigning thought.

"I... don’t know," you admit, your voice quieter than you intend. "It was so sudden. I couldn’t tell."

Now it’s Viktor’s turn to look. You feel it before you see it—his silence lengthening, gaze dipping as if in retaliation. You’re only in your nightgown, hair unpinned and falling loose around your shoulders. Part of it has gathered to one side, baring your neck where the fabric pulls slightly askew.

His voice is calm when he speaks again, but a note of huskiness threads beneath it. "Put something on. Boots would also be useful," he says.

When you step out into the corridor in a state of half-dress, Viktor hasn’t moved from his spot. Your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, the folds of your nightgown gathered in against the chill. “Where are we going?” you whisper.

Viktor offers his arm, focused and certain. “Where the sound came from,” he murmurs. “Quiet. And careful as you step.”

You take his arm, the crook of his elbow firm beneath your fingers, and together you begin the descent. The hallway is dark, lit only by the light of imminent dawn that filters through the windows in thin, pale bands. Every footfall seems amplified in the silence. You both move slowly, pausing at every groan of the old wood that isn’t produced by your feet. The air is heavy, thick with a chill that doesn’t come from low temperature, making your skin prickle.

Your heart pounds in your ears, loud as a drum, and you wonder whether Viktor can hear it too. Just as the thought crosses your mind, a gust of wind slams a door somewhere deeper in the house. You flinch violently, hand darting to grip his.

Without pause, Viktor hooks his cane over his free arm and slides a hand to your shoulder, steady and warm. “Don’t be scared,” he says gently. “It’s just a draft.”

You barely register the words at first, too focused on the fact that your hand is clasped in his. His skin is warm—surprisingly so—and rough at the knuckles, the calluses familiar in texture but startling in their intimacy. It’s the first time you’ve touched him without gloves or barriers. The contact is fleeting, but it stays with you, a spark flickering in your palm.

You breathe in slowly, hands conjoined, then out again with a huff, forcing a sheepish smile.

“Not so amusing anymore, hmm?” he teases, voice low but not unkind.

You let out a quiet laugh. “I’m distressed from lack of sleep.”

“Oh? Bad dreams?” he asks, casting a glance at you.

You shake your head. “No dreams at all, oddly. But the waking atmosphere is unsettling enough.”

You are halfway down the staircase when the figure of Captain Hisgins appears below, clad in a brocade dressing gown, his face pale and his breath coming short. “Mr Velesny,” he calls, voice tight with urgency. “I am glad to find you awake. I take it you heard it too?”

He is, like Viktor, still dressed for slumber, his hair slightly dishevelled and one hand braced on the banister as though he had hurried to intercept you.

Viktor nods, and regrettably, your hand is released as he retrieves his cane. “Any sign of a horse? Or a man, for that matter?” he inquires briskly, descending the remaining steps ahead of you.

“The footmen are already scouring the grounds,” Hisgins replies, running a hand through his greying hair. “But thus far, they’ve found nothing.” He glances at Viktor with visible strain. “What is your impression of the matter?”

Viktor merely shrugs, reaching the wooden floor below. His cane twists lightly into the boards as he hums in thought. “Too soon to say, Captain. Have you observed anything out of the ordinary this evening? Any disturbances beyond the sound itself?”

“No,” the older man replies, shaking his head. “Nothing beyond what already disturbs us, sir.” He exhales, resigned. “In truth, now that the household is well and truly roused, we may as well convene for breakfast.”

“If you would permit it,” Viktor says, gesturing between the two of you with a tilt of his head, “we might take a turn about the manor while breakfast is being prepared.”

“By all means,” says Captain Hisgins, nodding. “Only do wrap yourselves well. It is bitter out this morning.”

You step out into the hard air of a wind-bitten dawn, coats swelling in the sharp breeze. The sky holds a dim, steely light, and the breath between you and Viktor hangs visible in the chill. You trail just behind him as he keeps his gaze on the ground, occasionally pausing to inspect a section of weathered brick or the crumbling veins of a withered vine. The gravel beneath your feet is stiff with frost, but even so, there are no visible tracks. No hoofprints. No sign of disturbance.

“Nothing,” Viktor announces, his tone final, almost grim—spoken as if that, too, were a revelation.

He turns to look at you then, and his brows draw together. Your arms are drawn tight to your body, your posture stiff with cold, and your jaw clatters audibly as your teeth chatter against the chill. “Miss,” he murmurs, stepping toward you. “You ought to have buttoned this properly.”

Without waiting for leave, his hands come to draw your coat tighter about your form, the fabric shifting beneath his measured touch. He stands close—close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him in quiet waves, like heat rising off smouldering coals. You almost lean forward without thought, half-dreaming of burying your frozen nose in the space beneath his collar, where the scent of wool and something darker—ink, perhaps, or clove—lingers faintly.

“I—I thought we wouldn’t be l-long,” you stammer through your teeth, breath clouding between you. “H-how are y-you not c-cold?”

A low, amused hum escapes him. “Too excited,” he replies, drawing the lapels of your coat snug with one last tug. “And accustomed to colder climes, I daresay.” He tilts his head, examining your trembling body with a wry smile. “You, however—not quite made for fieldwork, are you?”

You gasp a laugh, breath shallow. “Do not mock me,” you manage, voice breathy with cold and proximity alike, especially when his hands begin to rub warmth into your shoulders.

“But why ever not?” he murmurs, unmistakably enjoying himself. “You mock me without hesitation, yet I am expected to show restraint? A most inequitable arrangement, wouldn’t you agree?” He leans in, just a fraction, voice dipping into something quieter. “City slickers are terribly delicate, after all.”

“And here I had taken you for a man who wouldn’t make a woman’s suffering the subject of his amusement,” you retort, though your words carry no true ire. The teasing is softened by the smile that plays at your lips—warm enough to banish the frost clinging to the eaves.

“I would never,” he replies at once, tone gentled. “Not yours.” A pause, just long enough to be felt.

“Come,” he adds more lightly, “let us be done with this and get you warm again, hm? There is nothing more to be found out here.”

You make no protest when his arm slips round your shoulders, drawing you in close as he guides you back through the doors. His warmth seeps into you again, welcome and wordless.

Once inside, you part briefly—only to dress and reconvene downstairs for breakfast. There, the household gathers with the drawn expressions of those roused too early. Yet the mood, curiously, has shifted: though wearied, there is a faint lifting of tension, perhaps because you and Viktor, too, have now borne witness to what might be deemed a supernatural disturbance. There is comfort, it seems, in shared disbelief.

Later that morning, you and Viktor find yourselves seated in the drawing room, a fire snapping in the grate. The heavy drapery drawn back allows a grey wash of daylight to filter in, limning the room in a pallid glow. The scent of strong coffee mingles with beeswax and coal.

Mary Hisgins is already there, seated with prim posture beside a tray of silver and porcelain. She rises as you enter. “Mr Velesny, Miss,” she greets you, offering a faint, composed smile. “Would you join me? I thought… after last night, a cup of coffee might not go amiss.”

You incline your head, and Viktor offers a courteous bow of thanks before settling opposite her. As you lower yourself beside him, you catch the subtle tension in her hands as she pours—the careful steadiness of someone striving not to tremble.

“You slept poorly, Miss Hisgins?” Viktor asks, voice mild as ever.

“I daresay we all did,” she replies, her smile tightening. “Though I confess, I have not heard such a sound before—not here, not in all the years I’ve lived under this roof.”

Her eyes flick to you, uncertain. You nod gently, encouraging. “Were you frightened?” you ask.

Mary hesitates. “Startled, yes. Frightened…” Her voice trails off, and she busies herself adjusting the cup on its saucer. “I suppose I’m more troubled by the timing. My cousin Harry is due to arrive this afternoon.”

At that, Viktor leans forward just a notch, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Parsket, is it not?” he says. “You spoke warmly of him yesterday.”

Mary pauses. “Yes… Harry Parsket. He is—was—a frequent visitor. But we have not seen him since—” She breaks off. “It has been some time.”

“And you expect him today?” you prompt.

She nods, lips pursed. “He is to stay through the weekend. Father thought it best to gather the family, given... everything.”

Viktor’s brow lifts, but he says nothing, merely studying her with that particular gaze of his, sharp and soft all at once. “You seem uneasy at the thought,” he speaks at last, and though his tone is gentle, the observation lands like a dropped pin.

Mary looks down into her cup. “It is nothing. I am merely tired. That is all.” Neither of you believes it, but Viktor merely hums and thanks her for the coffee.

Two cups, a gentle conversation, and some more delicate prying later, you all rise to retreat to your afternoon occupations—Mary, keen to seek the company of her fiancé; you and Viktor, intent upon continuing your inquiries with what scant clues the house has offered.

It is as the drawing room door clicks softly shut behind you that the sound returns.

At first, it is no more than a faint, distant murmur—an echo carried along the floorboards. But within seconds, it grows louder, nearer, unmistakable: the rhythmic pound of hoofbeats, iron-shod and unrelenting, tearing across the room.

You reach instinctively for Viktor’s sleeve.

The door handle rattles violently when he tests it, refusing to yield beneath his grasp.

“Locked,” he mutters. “Stand back.”

The echo of the gallop surges to a furious pitch on the other side of the panelled wood. Somewhere behind you, Captain Hisgins issues a court order; a sabre is wrested from its mount upon the stairwell wall and drawn with a clean metallic ring. He ushers Mary behind him with a protective arm. The butler appears not long after, rifle in hand, jaw clenched white.

“Stand ready,” Viktor calls, one hand bracing the latch while the other reaches for the handle once more. You can hear the strain in the wood, something rattling in the hinges.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the galloping ceases.

A silence falls—so complete it seems unnatural.

With a swift motion, Viktor forces the door open. It flies wide with a protesting creak, and from the gloom within the drawing room, the sound bursts forth again—this time not from within, but without, a blur of motion tearing through the threshold.

You stagger back just in time.

A gust of frigid air follows the phantom charge. Though your eyes find nothing, the hoofbeats are unmistakable—crossing the hallway and thundering toward the stairs. Mary cries out and Captain Hisgins moves to shield her with a flourish of steel.

And then—nothing.

The sound halts as if severed mid-stride, right at the foot of the stair. Not a mark remains. No scratch on the wood, no broken thread in the rug.

Viktor steps forward, composed as ever. His cane taps once, softly. He listens—not with fear, but a tense, hawkish stillness, his body held in careful readiness.

You, though close enough to feel the warmth of his arm against yours, struggle to suppress the chill threading through your limbs. Still, you stand your ground, eyes roving the walls, the ceiling, the corridor floor for some trace—any sign that this is not merely madness disguised in echo.

Your hand brushes his again. It steadies you, though you pretend not to notice.

“Did you hear a voice?” you whisper.

“No,” Viktor replies softly, without looking at you. “Only the hooves. But they... stopped.”

You nod, though uncertainty swirls in your chest like frost in a jar. You fix your gaze on the staircase, where Mary still clings to her father’s side, white as bone.

The remainder of the day wears on with dampened spirits. Mary excuses herself not long after the incident, retiring to her chambers with trembling hands and a complexion drained of all colour. No further invitations are extended. In her absence, the house feels oppressively silent.

Harry Parsket does arrive, however—fashionably late, and far too composed. He exchanges the necessary pleasantries, then retires early, pleading exhaustion. And he is a man with the unmistakable, fiery red hair that betrays his ginger roots, neatly combed back to reveal a sharp, angular face. His complexion is fair, dotted with a light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His eyes, a pale shade of green, gleam with a calculating coolness, often narrowing as if measuring those around him. Though he carries himself with a composed air, there's an unsettling intensity about him—a quiet tension, as though he's always on the edge of some internal conflict. His attire is impeccably tailored, his mannerisms just a shade too polished, as though he’s rehearsed his interactions with others.

“He looks nothing like a man who has travelled ten hours across the country, do you not think?” Viktor murmurs once you are alone together in the library, the fire crackling low behind you. He paces the length of the room with measured steps, while you pore over a spread of household schematics and architectural notes retrieved from the butler’s archive.

You glance up from your work. “You suspect he did not come from afar?”

“Precisely,” he replies, pausing to turn a slow circle in place, cane balanced loosely in one hand. “He was barely winded. No dust upon his shoes, no fatigue in his step. His distaste for our presence was also palpable. I would go so far as to say—threatened.”

You shift in your chair, flipping a page with careful fingers. “He does possess something of a manic touch, I will grant you that. Do you believe he is attempting to displace Mr Beaumont?”

Viktor’s lips curl faintly at the corner. “Hmm. Perhaps more than that. He may be inclined to remove Mary entirely. A lover spurned is seldom rational.”

“Ah,” you say, leaning your chin into one hand, “the blasphemous rumours. What strange things they do to men.”

“Indeed,” he says, gaze drifting to the window where the light is beginning to pale. “Sometimes the passion of lovers is for death—no matter whose.”

You lift your eyes to his, and for a moment, they hold. Something heavy stirs between you—something silent and promising. When the tension grows too taut to bear, you drop your gaze back to the spread of documents before you, heat rising beneath your collar.

Your finger traces along a pencilled corridor, following it to a sharp turn and downward slope. “Here,” you say quietly, “we have missed something. There is a cellar. Not marked clearly, but it’s here. The stairs are tucked behind the servants’ hall.”

Viktor steps close behind you, peering over your shoulder. You feel the shift in air before he speaks. “Excellent,” he says, his voice low and satisfied. “We ought to descend at once, before the light fades.”

You tilt your head back slightly. “What difference would daylight make? The hauntings occurred by day as well.”

“I have a theory,” he replies, and his voice—calm, assured, almost fond—settles something uneasy in your chest. “And I would rather not wait for darkness to confirm it.”

The servants—once pressed—are swift to share what little they know. The entrance to the cellar lies behind a curtained recess in the servants’ corridor, narrow and low-arched. The space below, they explain, is seldom visited beyond the occasional retrieval of a vintage bottle or to stow away miscellaneous goods unfit for display.

With a cautious nod, you and Viktor descend.

The air thickens as soon as the door closes behind you. It is cold—sharply so—and damp, the kind of chill that seeps beneath one’s skin and settles into the bone. You hold a gas lamp aloft, the small flame dancing against the stone, throwing tall, warped shadows along the corridor walls. The ceiling is low enough that Viktor must duck slightly, his cane clacking against the stone floor with every careful step.

The first chamber yields only what the servants promised: rows of bottles stacked neatly upon wooden racks, their labels dust-laced and curled with age. The air smells of cork and mildew.

You move slowly, breathing shallowly. It is the second room that proves more curious.

“Here,” Viktor murmurs, his voice bouncing low off the stone. He stoops to retrieve one of several long wooden poles stacked carelessly in the corner. The ends are bound with crude blocks, padded lightly with cloth.

He turns it over in his hand, inspecting the make, and then exhales through his nose. “As I thought.”

You edge closer, squinting at the object. “What is it?”

“A device. For noise.” He gestures toward the ceiling with the pole. “If struck against the floorboards from beneath, one might very easily produce the rhythm of hooves. The shape of the blocks allows for a double-beat.”

You blink, incredulous. “You think Harry Parsket came down here to rattle the house with these?”

Viktor replaces the pole with care. “If we are fortunate—yes. A man wounded by affection will often bleed onto those around him.”

You stare at the makeshift tools, your skin prickling. “But the effort of it. The stealth. He would have to creep about in the dead of night and wait. Sneak down here without a soul noticing.”

That sparks something in him. “Sneaking.” Viktor’s brows furrow, and he straightens, eyes scanning the walls with renewed scrutiny. “Yes. How, indeed?”

He begins to pace, dragging his cane along the mortar between the stones. You follow with the lamp, its circle of light bobbing as you squeeze through the tight corridor behind him. Your shoulder brushes a wet wall. You flinch.

It is not long before Viktor halts, hand pressed against a section of uneven masonry. “Here.”

He draws a small blade from his pocket and begins to chip away at the edge. A moment later, the stone gives with a soft groan, and a narrow passage yawns open before you—hidden, earthen, and just wide enough to huddle through.

You peer inside, instinctively stepping back as a breath of cold air rushes out. “It’s an escape tunnel,” Viktor says. “Old, most likely forgotten. Once used by the gentlemen of the house to reach the village unseen, I’d wager.”

You hesitate. The tunnel is pitch black beyond the gaslight’s reach, walls choked with root and damp, the scent of mould curling at the edges of your senses. The space feels tight enough to crush.

Viktor looks to you. And he sees it. He does not tease you for the fear etched at the corners of your expression. Instead, he extends his hand—palm up this time, bare and steady.

“Come,” he says quietly. “We shall step through together.”

You hesitate for only a breath, then press your fingers to his. His hand is warmer than you expect—steady, familiar. And you step forward—together—into the dark.

“We must make haste,” Viktor murmurs, voice low and close in the tight air. “If Parsket is indeed here, then I suspect he has laid every necessary snare to rid himself of either Miss Hisgins or Mr Beaumont. Possibly both.”

The tunnel narrows ahead, forcing you to walk in single file. You stay close, your hand still caught in his. “And what precisely are we hoping to find down here?” you ask, your voice trembling just a touch as it echoes along the stone.

“More of Parsket’s instruments, I should think. A theatre of fear—well-rehearsed and concealed.”

You swallow, casting a glance at the damp-packed earth behind you. “And if not?”

Viktor exhales slowly, cane tapping cautiously ahead of him. “Then my theory holds. That there are two sources to this disturbance. One, very much of flesh and motive…” He pauses, and his tone lowers further. “The other, I fear, may not be.”

You flinch at that, lips parting. “Viktor—”

And then the wind surges. A sudden gust cuts through the narrow tunnel like a knife, damp and biting, carrying with it a low, hollow howl that rattles your ribs. The lamp sputters, flares—and dies. Darkness swallows you whole.

You gasp, and instinct overtakes reason. Quickly, you turn and bury your face in the crook of Viktor’s collar, one hand fisting his sleeve, the other clutching the lamp. Your bodies press together, breath caught in your throat.

Viktor goes still. A long moment passes before he speaks—gently, carefully, his voice a tether.

“Miss…” he murmurs, the word drawn out—both a question and an offering. His hand comes to rest at the small of your back: protective, grounding. “I am here,” he says, voice low, just above your ear. “It was only the wind. Breathe with me.”

You draw a trembling breath against his throat. The warmth of it touches your lips where it rebounds from his skin, and he leans closer, the tautness of him brushing against you. His breath grows heavier; his touch, firmer, anchoring you by the waist. He props his cane blindly against the damp wall, and with a free hand, traces the line of your shoulder up to the curve of your neck.

You gasp—no longer from fright, but from something else entirely. His pulse beats loud and sure in his fingertips as they skim your cheek, and then his thumb comes to rest beneath your jaw, urging you gently to look up. As your head tilts, your hair brushes his chin, loosening a few strands that catch in the air between you. Your skin grazes his, and his breath—warm—ghosts against your cheek. His eyes are closed, his brow inclined toward yours, his mouth… almost there.

Your noses align, the space between you drawn impossibly thin, and for a time you breathe together. You think there can be no more closeness to find, but still he shifts—barely perceptibly, inch by inch—until his presence wraps around you. The narrow tunnel seems to widen; the cold air warms. His nearness gathers like flame.

His arm is nearly fully encircled about your waist now, and it is then you feel it—his heartbeat, wild and rapid, pounding like a hare’s foot slamming against the ground. And just when you think it inevitable—when you believe, truly, you are about to learn the taste of his lips—Viktor swallows with effort. His forehead comes to rest upon yours, and his eyes open, their gaze clear.

“We ought to see to the lamp,” he murmurs, hoarse, his voice no louder than a spectre’s breath. You very nearly whimper.

He parts from you—only by a few inches, but it feels like eons—and reaches into his coat pocket for a box of matches. When the lamp sputters back to life, its glow strikes your eyes with cruel intensity. Neither of you speaks. Your hands, which just a moment ago clung so tightly to one another, now hang useless at your sides. You move forward in silence, each step reverberating in the hollow corridor, your heartbeat still thundering somewhere between your ears.

Before long, the passage opens into a cramped stone chamber. There, set into the far wall, stands an old door. You inspect it with cautious curiosity, and together you determine it must lead to the grounds outside. But it is not the door that seizes Viktor’s attention—it is what lies on the floor.

In the corner, partially veiled beneath a nest of rags, something waits. The arrangement is too deliberate for chance. Viktor crouches, brushes the cloth aside, and lifts the object free.

It is a book. Small, bound in cracked leather, its pages inked in a language you cannot decipher. But Viktor can. “As I feared,” he murmurs, the weight of the words tugging at the air. “We must return at once. Night is falling.”

“Viktor,” you say softly.

“Yes?” He turns to you, and his voice—quiet, steady—catches slightly on the syllable. As though hoping you might say something more.

You hesitate, then glance toward the door. “Shall we use that way out instead of the tunnel?”

He blinks, and then—relieved, perhaps—nods. “Ah. Yes. A most excellent suggestion. Let us take it.”

You step outside into a landscape smothered in dusk. The manor looms not far off—its shadowed form half-swallowed by fog. The sun has just slipped beneath the horizon, but its ghost remains, bleeding red into the mist like an open wound.

As you walk beneath the creeping dusk, the fog curling low at your ankles, you hold the lamp aloft with one hand for Viktor, the book clutched protectively in his.

“It is the Sigsand Manuscript,” he says at last, his voice low, as though hesitant to name the thing aloud. “A compendium of sorts. A handbook on the summoning and binding of infernal entities—many drawn from Arabic demonology. It is exceedingly rare. Dangerous.”

You glance over at him, brow furrowing. “Is that what we’re dealing with, then? A demon?”

“Not precisely,” he says, and there is a thrill in his voice—some blend of apprehension and fascination that always finds its home in the shadows of his scholarly pursuits. “I believe what we are facing is a squarch. A corrupted form of a saiitii—a class of spirit born of fire and bound by wrath. I suspect this one has been... changed. Distorted. Twisted by the blacksmith’s sorrow and fury.”

“And the horse?”

“The sacrifice was equine in nature, was it not?” he replies. “A creature once loved and lost, perhaps. Such grief leaves an imprint. In cases like these, the spirit often assumes the form most associated with the emotional core of the summoning.”

You walk in silence for a moment, the air colder now, heavier. “And the book?” you ask. “What does it contain?”

“A spell,” he says. “One that may be used to dispel the entity… or to bind it.”

You glance sideways at him. “And which would you prefer?”

At that, Viktor’s lips curl—not cruelly, but with unmistakable intrigue, like a man peering through a keyhole into forbidden chambers.

“I am, by nature, one who binds,” he says, voice edged with mischief. “Curiosity is, I fear, not easily denied.”

You say nothing, but he sees the shift in your face. The weariness in your eyes. And so, with uncharacteristic softness, he amends, “But not in this case. I assure you. Whatever it is, it must be laid to rest.”

You nod once, but before another word may be spoken—

A shot rings out. Sharp. Close. You both stop, breath caught. Viktor whips toward the sound, his grip tightening on the manuscript.

“Come,” he says. “We must hurry.”

The last threads of sunlight vanish as you break into fast pace, hearts on your sleeves. When Shalladholm rises into view once more, it is in the midst of chaos—shouts, rapid footfalls, the sharp cry of Mary’s name splitting the mist.

She and her fiancé had wandered off for a stroll, reckless and lovebound, utterly irresponsible—entirely fitting for a young couple clinging to some fleeting reprieve from the mounting dread. When you and Viktor find them, it is Beaumont who stands above Mary’s fainted form, his forehead split and slick with blood.

“She—she swooned,” he pants, eyes wide and unseeing. “We felt something. I thought we ought to return, and then—then it came. Out of the fog. A head—enormous. A horse’s head. Rearing up. I fired once, just once, and—”

He falters, lowering his revolver as if only just realising he still holds it.

Viktor kneels beside Mary, fingers pressed to her wrist. “She lives,” he says softly, then rises, turning sharply at the sound of boots thudding on wet grass.

Harry Parsket emerges moments later, flanked by the butler and Captain Hisgins. He is panting, sweat gleaming at his temples, the edges of his greatcoat damp with mud. His eyes dart over the scene, lingering a touch too long on Mary.

Viktor’s gaze narrows. “Seize him,” he tells the captain, voice low and unyielding. “Now.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Harry demands as the captain and the butler step toward him. “I’ve only just arrived—I came to help!”

“I daresay you’ve helped quite enough,” Viktor replies coolly. “Where were you when the shot rang out?”

“I heard it from the eastern hedge—I ran to it directly!”

“And yet you are out of breath, clothes soiled,” Viktor says, circling him. “You were not running toward the sound. You were running away.”

“You’ve no proof—!”

“I have motive,” Viktor cuts in, eyes flashing. “Jealousy is a powerful motive, and yours is not so well concealed as you think. You sought to drive a wedge between the lady and her intended. You meant to frighten her, to cast doubt on his ability to protect her. And perhaps, if that failed, to place yourself in a position to protect her instead. Or”—his tone darkens—“you meant to frighten her into your arms by force.”

Beaumont, still kneeling beside Mary, stiffens. The captain’s expression shifts as he glances at Harry anew.

“You are mad,” Harry spits. “You think me capable of conjuring horses from mist?”

“I think you capable of sneaking into the cellar,” Viktor says, voice deathly quiet, “of setting the stage. I think you are capable of cruelty, and of cowardice. And I think your little performance would have worked—had it not been for a certain book we found tucked amongst the rags.”

Harry’s face drains of colour. He takes a step back, then another, but the butler is swift. A hand clamps around his arm.

Mary stirs with a faint moan, drawing all eyes. Beaumont leans down to murmur soft reassurances. When she blinks up, dazed, and sees Harry bound, her face twists—something between confusion and heartbreak.

The silence that follows is not quite triumphant. It is too cold for that, too wet. The fog curls tighter around the house. The air still holds the echo of galloping hoofbeats. And you feel it—beneath your skin, behind your breath.

Harry struggles against the butler’s grip, spitting curses and flailing like a man come undone.

“You think this is my doing?” he bellows, laughter manic and cracking. “You think I had the power to raise what’s out there?” He wrenches half-free, the lamplight catching the madness in his eyes. “I only meant to scare them! To remind her of what she owed me! But this—this is not mine!”

The wind shifts and howls. From the far edge of the grounds comes a sound not born of any earthly thing. A deep, shuddering whinny—wet and distorted—like the scream of a dying stag trapped beneath a frozen lake. The fog parts in violent jerks, carving a path through the hedgerow, and every bird in the wood takes flight.

Mary clutches Beaumont. Even the captain recoils. You feel Viktor shift closer to you, hand brushing the back of your sleeve, his cane steady in the other as his mouth moves—not to speak, but to begin the invocation.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, though his eyes are fixed ahead. “Do not run.” The book opens.

The fog rolls back and the thing that emerges from it is wrong. It has the shape of a horse, yes—broad-chested and heavy of hoof—but there the resemblance ends. Its flesh is slick with bloodless rot, the colour of iron left to tarnish. Its mane writhes like drowned hair, thick with riverweed and curling smoke. A jagged blaze splits its face down the centre, flaying it open to bone where no bone should be. Where its eyes ought to be are pits, cavernous and black��swirling with a starlight that does not belong to this world.

It breathes, and the air curdles. The earth shudders beneath its hooves.

“It’s real?” Beaumont rasps.

“Oh God,” Mary sobs, “oh God, oh God—”

Harry screams. “You see? This isn’t my doing! This is no trick! This is your fault!” He turns on Viktor, wild. “You brought it here—you and your cursed books—”

Viktor does not answer. He is already speaking in tongues.

The words from the Sigsand Manuscript tear through the mist like blades of salt and fire. You feel them inside your chest, humming against your ribs, a pull behind your navel as if the spell seeks to unmake something deeper than the monster before you.

The squarch rears back. Its scream is unholy, a noise that is all iron, and flame, and unspent wrath. Its eyes burn suddenly with recognition—of the words, of the man who speaks them. Smoke erupts from its torn mouth.

Viktor’s voice falters only once—his eyes flick to the page, then to you. With swift precision, he drops his cane, draws a knife from his coat and presses it into your hand.

“Straight through the palm,” he says, low, urgent. “No deeper.”

You stare at him, at the lines of his face drawn taut with focus, at the quivering muscles of his outstretched hand.

“Now,” he urges. You nod—once—and slice.

The knife parts his skin with sickening ease. His breath hitches, but he does not pull away. Blood wells instantly, rich and red, and Viktor smears it across the page of the manuscript in a single, decisive stroke. The symbols drink it like ink. The manuscript thrums in his grip, pages curling at the edges as though inhaling.

You see the thing fracture. First in its haunch, then the shoulder, then across the spine—like glass splintering beneath frost. Its mane dissolves into black steam, its hooves collapse inward, and its skull caves with an echo like thunder. The air pulls tight, every particle stretched to a breaking point.

And then—

Silence. Nothing but mist. A scorched smell. The echo of your own breathing.

Viktor lowers his hand. The book is singed at the corners. Harry slumps to his knees, silent now. There is no fight left in him.

Viktor turns to you at last. “It is done.”

You aren’t sure whether the ground beneath your feet is still real. Only that it holds you. That the fog is thinner now. That the cold is cleaner.

“Captain,” Viktor turns to Saul Hisgins, sending a sharp, unwavering glare in Harry’s direction. “Send for the police.” Then he turns to you. His expression softens. “Are you alright?”

You do not answer at once. The air still feels wrong in your lungs, your heart still climbs your throat.

He takes a step closer. He murmurs your name, and lifts his uncut hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, steadying. “You seem unharmed. Clearly stunned though.”

“You may say that,” you manage. Your voice betrays you—thinned by strain, warped by awe. There is too much in it: relief, distress, and unmistakably, admiration. So much so that it embarrasses you to hear yourself.

Viktor says nothing to that. Only, “Come.” He retrieves his cane, tucks the tome beneath his arm, and begins walking. You follow. The others remain behind to shoulder the consequences of the night’s revelations—Captain Hisgins shouting commands, Mary still in tears, and Harry scowling beneath the watchful eye of the butler.

As you pass through the hallway, a maid, flustered but dutiful, presses a small tin and a bundle of gauze into your hands with a tight-lipped nod. She has no time to speak, but his meaning is clear.

Once upstairs, the quiet seems unreal. You and Viktor pause in the liminal space between your rooms—both doors half-open, the corridor dim. You look at him. His blood is still fresh on his palm, drying in thin black lines across his lifeline.

You raise the kit slightly. “Would you like me to—?”

He nods—silent, solemn—and after a breath’s hesitation, opens the door to his room and steps aside for you to enter.

You set the kit on the nightstand and he unbuttons his coat, moving carefully, as if still hearing the echo of the horse’s scream in his bones. He slips out of it with a wince and drapes it over the armchair. Waistcoat follows, tugged open one button at a time. His shirt sleeves are already rolled to the forearm, streaked faintly with blood. You watch him without meaning to. There’s a reverence in the movement—something quiet and certain.

You remove your gloves without ceremony, one finger at a time, the thin fabric catching on your knuckles. Your hands feel colder without them, and smaller somehow.

You sit first, perching on the edge of the bed. He joins you after a moment, his weight shifting the mattress just enough for your bodies to tilt toward one another.

He offers his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—a gesture at once open and trusting. You take it. Set it on your lap like something precious. The blood has dried at the edges but remains wet in the centre, the cut deeper than you meant it to be.

You open the tin, uncap the antiseptic, and wet a cloth. The first touch draws a sharp hiss from between Viktor’s teeth. “I’ve had worse,” he mutters, almost amused. “You needn’t be so thorough.”

You glance up at him, briefly. “You used the same knife to scrape at some musty stone in the basement,” you murmur.

That earns a short, quiet chuckle. “Fair enough.”

You keep at your task, gently. You clean around the wound, fingers bracing the heel of his palm, your other hand working the cloth in slow, spiralling movements. The silence between you grows soft, no longer born of fear or aftermath, but of something else entirely.

When you reach for the gauze, your fingers linger on his. And when you begin to wrap the bandage, your hand brushes his again and again, knuckles grazing, palms shifting. You should stop. Instead, you let your fingers trail down his once, then again, idly tracing the length of them, as if learning their shape.

Viktor watches your hands. Then lifts his gaze to your face. He doesn’t speak but the silence now is full of sparks, brimming.

“You were incredible today,” you say, so quietly you hardly recognise your own voice.

Viktor blinks, caught off-guard. “I thought…” he begins, brows pulling together faintly, “I thought you’d be frightened of me.”

You shake your head once. “It is not you I was frightened of.”

His eyes search yours. His bandaged hand still rests on your lap. He leans in, just slightly, his breath warm at the edge of your cheek. Not yet touching, but near enough to feel the weight of the moment shift.

Closer, again. Your temples come together and with an unbearable strain you roll your forehead on his, unable to resist the pull of this man you’ve known for only four days, yet it feels like all the past versions of you yearned for him. With hands trembling and carrying a scent of herbal essence, you fist his collar and defeat the distance of the few remaining inches between you.

And Viktor breaks too. He parts his lips before they meet yours, a relieved groan escaping the back of his throat just as your mouth finds his. It seals you both into something ferocious and clumsy and almost ugly in its want.

His hand comes to the nape of your neck, pulling you in like he’s starved of warmth and sense alike. Your mouths crash together with teeth, with breath, with all the panic of too much too soon—and not soon enough. The kiss is slick, desperate, open-mouthed. His tongue meets yours without caution, without thought, with the familiarity of someone who too might have once known you in another life and lost you.

He moans low against your lips as he presses himself to you, half-twisted on the bed to reach you more fully. His fingers knot in the back of your hair, and the bandaged hand fumbles clumsily at your waist, trying to pull you closer. You can feel the heat of him, the frantic way his chest rises and falls. He pants into you like it’s too much to bear.

Your own hands are wild—at his shirt, in his hair, clinging to the sharp lines of his ribs. He’s hard beneath the layer, lean and trembling and undone. When you shift your hips forward, your thigh grazes between his, and the way he jerks with it—breath hitching, hips stuttering—makes your stomach twist with molten hunger.

As if every version of him that ever lived had craved this. Had craved you.

He breaks the kiss only to gasp for air, lips slick and parted, eyes fluttering open like he’s not sure whether he should be ashamed or grateful. But you don’t give him the chance to speak. You kiss him again, harder, and he answers with a sound that borders on a whimper, tipping forward into your body like a man possessed.

His breath grows ragged as your fingers skim higher, trembling where they hover over the buttons of his shirt. You undo the first one slowly, and then another—your hands caught between hunger and reverence. His chest rises under your touch like it aches, like it hurts to be held back.

But just as you reach for the next, Viktor gasps—a sharp, wounded sound. His hands seize yours with a desperate grip, as if scorched by the intimacy. "We can't," he breathes, and his voice is raw. "I can't. I'm sorry."

You freeze. The moment holds for a single beat, then collapses under its own weight.

You jerk back, out of his grasp, rising so fast your knees knock the side of the bed. It nearly sends you stumbling, graceless and shaken. You press a hand to your mouth, too late to catch the flurry of words that tumble out.

"No—it’s—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—"

He watches you with something close to heartbreak. But you don’t wait to see it settle. You bolt.

The door of your bedroom slams behind you with a violence that startles even you, and you press your back to it, breathing like you’ve run a mile through mist and blood and the fractured night.

Your pulse is a hammer behind your ribs. Heat still clings to your skin like sweat. Sleep, tonight, again will be a luxury beyond reach. And for once, you would welcome the hauntings—any phantom, any horror, any nightmare—if only it could wrest your thoughts from the man you just left behind.

[lesiasmadness]

The more I play hollow knight the more I see it in your art style

Am I based for this or is this a sign of my increasing descent into madness. I do not know

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAyyyyyy that's so flattering, thank you! I never made a conscious connection but I've done a lot of art when I was in the HK days so it must have affected me a lot lol. Besides I love it it's right up my ally... Yea it clicks with me as I'm typing this that yea HK got me to use the more textured brushes and colored shading and probably the eye proportions and all that come from there

I think my best looking art to this day (depressing as it is to admit that peaked 4 years ago) was made for a Hollow Knight telephone game based on an AU

So yea! Lots of joy on my end from finding out that you can still tell there's HK influence in my art, I am filled with love to the stuff I draw and I am changed through it and that's so cool

[thepagansystem]

Blood of Gold and Tears of Stars [Genshin Creator AU]

soooooo, I've recently discovered the Divine Creator AU and got obsessed. Naturally, that means I started a new fic, lmao. It's going to be updated on AO3 Here, but I figured I'd post the first chapter here <3

--------

The people of Teyvat had long forgotten their Divine Creator, the usurpers from the Stars having used dark knowledge to seal Her and the memory of her away inside the floating islands of Celestia within a year of arriving on her planet. And this imprisonment lasted for many, many years. However, after the fall of Kaenri’ah 500 years ago, cracks in the magic they used began to form. The Tsaritsa, fair Goddess of Love, was the first to remember their beloved Creator. This revelation led to her creation of the Fatui--she hoped overthrowing Celestia and the Heavenly Principles would undo the blasphemous act and free Elysia Seraphine at long last. 

It was also around this time that the Ley Line Outcrops began to appear all across Teyvat--the first rumblings of Elysia’s returning consciousness. As the Ley Line Blossoms began to be purified, bits and pieces of the Creator returned to the people of Teyvat--and they began to remember. No one knew where the Creator was, but they held onto the hope that she would return to them one day and began chronicling the stories they could remember of her in the meantime.

And then, one bright sunny day--an immense implosion of elemental energy swept across the land, stopping at the central island of Celestia. Those nearest to the floating island of the Gods stared up in shock, and after a moment of unnerving stillness--the islands disintegrated in a burst of blinding golden light. At long last, the Creator had awoken from her imprisoned slumber.

--------------------------

Elysia fell from the sparkling wreckage of Celestia, the winds of Teyvat wrapping around her limp body and slowing her descent to the shores near Mount Mingyuan. As the sleeping Goddess neared the ground, a group of Dendro slimes jumped out of the earth and made a bed of elemental energy as the wind gently laid her down.

The Dendro slimes bounced around her protectively, as the teal-haired protector of Liyue appeared in a sudden burst of smoke--wide amber eyes staring at the peaceful form of Elysia Seraphine. He deflected the bursts of dendro the slimes shot at him, scowling at the interference as he swiped at the largest of the slime. “I’m here to protect her Grace, back off.” He glanced back at the Creator as he snapped at the slimes, suddenly worried he might disrupt her slumber. After assuring she still slept soundly, he squinted back at the slimes as they plopped back into the ground one after another--deeming him safe. The Vigilant Yaksha released his hold on his spear, letting it disappear as he carefully approached the Divine Creator.  Stepping inside her aura made him pause, a look of surprise crossing his face as the years of karmic debt he had accumulated just...faded to silence. The relief was as blessed as it was unsettling, but Xiao shook his shock off as he gently crouched down. It felt blasphemous to touch her so casually, but Morax had ordered her safe retrieval until the Creator awoke. Shaking his head again, Xiao gently lifted Elysia into his arms with her head cradled into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, before disappearing in another cloud of smoke. 

A pair of pink eyes narrowed in irritation as the two disappeared from sight, as the white-haired woman stepped out from the rocks she had been hiding behind. As the Dendro Slimes popped out of the ground to attack her, the woman materialized her sword and cut all five down with one strike of her blade. Glaring at the spot the Divine Creator had been, she scoffed before tearing open a rip in space and stepping back through.

----

Zhongli sat at the stone table he, Guizhong, and Cloud Retainer used to eat at atop Mount Aocang, lost in thought as he awaited the arrival of Xiao and Lady Elysia. To think that Celestia had locked away everyone’s memories of their Divine Creator...it angered him greatly. Now that she had been freed at last, all the hidden memories had rushed back--and he finally understood what the Tsaritsa had been working towards these long years. 

He blinked away his thoughts as Xiao appeared in a cloud of smoke, standing and walking towards the oft scowling Yaksha. His eyes immediately went to the still form of his Goddess, as he fell to his knees. She looked so peaceful asleep in Xiao’s arms, and the golden dragon of Contracts had a sudden spike of envy. Shaking himself from his stupor, Zhongli stood back up with a clearing of his throat, before turning to walk back towards the stone table with a hand beckoning Xiao to follow. He paused upon reaching the table, conflicted on laying his Goddess upon such an uncomfortable surface. Before he had a chance to think of a solution, the trees near the table shivered as dendro energy pulsed through the area, while a gentle breeze brought soft bedding of flowers and leaves to rest atop the stone table. Awed by the reverence the very land seemed to bestow upon her, Zhongli nodded to Xiao as the Yaksha stepped forward and hesitantly layed Elysia upon the created bed. 

The two stood in silence for a few moments, before Zhongli shook himself and took a few steps away from her, Xiao following behind him. “Did you have any trouble bringing Her here?” 

Xiao shook his head, crossing his arms across his chest. “No, Lord Lapis. She was being protected by Dendro Slimes when I arrived, but no one else was around.” He paused, contemplating his thoughts before hesitantly asking his Archon. “Do you really think anyone wishes to harm Her Grace?”

Zhongli hummed, looking back at the sleeping Creator, slowly answering the question. “I believe it is a distinct possibility that Celestia put fail-safes in place. It seems best to not risk Her injury until we know for certain.” Xiao nodded in understanding as the Geo Archon continued, “Everyone likely knows what the implosion of energy meant, and will come searching for her--with good and ill intent certainly. I’m sure the other Archons are like to trace her aura here before long, though I do not know if any will show themselves.”

Xiao nodded again, looking back at Elysia before scanning the surroundings for potential threats. “Have you summoned the other Adepti to guard her until she wakes?”

Zhongli nodded slightly, his eyes still locked on the sleeping form of his Creator, entranced. “Indeed, they should arrive before too long--I find it imperative to protect Her Grace from further harm.” As he spoke, he abruptly turned to stare out across the sky, sensing the abnormally shifting winds as he spotted a green and brown-clad form shooting towards them. He immediately stood and shot his arms out, “Solidify!” The pillars shooting up around Elysia caused Xiao to jolt, immediately drawing his spear and facing towards the inbound figure as a protective geo field formed around the Creator.

Zhongli only slightly relaxed upon recognizing Barbatos, the short windborne bard gracefully landing before the pair with an unusually somber and serious expression on his face. Xiao remained in his defensive stance, unsure if the bard posed a threat or not and unwilling to take the chance. “What brings you to my domain, Barbatos?” Zhongli’s tone was guarded and weary, his arms crossed over his chest and back rigid. 

Venti gave a shallow dip of his head, leaning to the side to see around Zhongli--eliciting a small gasp as he saw Elysia. He took a few steps towards her, before Xiao sliced his spear out to stop him as Zhongli unwittingly let out a low growl deep in his throat. Venti stumbled to a stop, blinking owlishly at the two of them before giving a weepy-eyed pout. “Why are you keeping Her Grace to yourself Morax? We all want to see her now that she has been returned to us.” 

Zhongli’s eyes and ends of his hair started to glow slightly, as his draconic instincts picked up, golden scales spreading across his cheeks. “I am ensuring her safety from those who may wish to harm her--we do not yet know for certain that Celestia has not sent people to attack her.”

Venti’s eyes widened, his already pale skin going ashen--he had been so excited to feel her presence that the thought of her safety hadn’t crossed his mind. “Oh.”

As the three continued their heated debate, Elysia’s golden eyes slowly opened. She stared up at the open sky in awe, slowly lifting an arm up in muted curiosity and disbelief. As she slowly sat upwards, she turned to look at the three who were serving as her protectors, a bemused smile on her face. With a whisper of wind helping her stand for the first time in at least 10,000 years, she took a careful step towards the three. Seeing the shimmering geo energy around her, she skimmed a hand over the surface and the shield dissolved. 

Xiao was the first to notice her, the angry voices of long dead gods quieting as she drew near. Dropping his spear, the Yaksha fell to his knees with his face upturned towards her. The two ex-Archons ceased their bickering to look over--freezing upon seeing their Divine Creator gazing at them mere feet away. Following Xiao, Zhongli and Venti both knelt on the ground, bowing their heads to Elysia in supplication. Of all the denizens of Teyvat, the Archons felt the most guilty at forgetting their Goddess--and bowing to her usurper.

She tilted her head slightly to the side, her long elegant tail whispering along the ground as it swayed back and forth. Taking another step towards them, she cupped each of the gods cheeks in one hand to lift their heads up. “Do not bow your heads in shame, my dear Cherubim. You are not to blame for my entombment and expungement from memory.” As the two gods looked up, Xiao felt a bitter sense of longing for her caress as well. As if she could read his thoughts, Elysia turned towards him and ran her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress. “Thank you for bringing me somewhere safe while I regained my strength, my brave and sorrowful Yaksha. You have done well, so please don’t view yourself so lowly.” She gave him a soft smile, drawing her hand back as she clasped both behind her back and watched the three with bemusement. 

Xiao blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to fight back the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. After a moment of silence, Zhongli rose to his feet--causing the other two to follow in his lead when Elysia nodded encouragingly. Zhongli was also the first to break the silence, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself in the presence of his Goddess. “Your Grace..Is there anything we can do for you? I am sorry that you were so sacrilegiously treated for so long without us doing anything to assist you.”

She chuckled softly, her smile brightening at the sincerity in his words, “Do not fret, dear Morax. Even if you had learned sooner, there is not much more that could have been done. The usurpers used dark knowledge they brought from beyond the stars, and I was unprepared for such an attack.” As she spoke, her tail swished and she raised her head to look towards the glowing blue waypoint as it pulsed with energy. Curiosity sparked in her eyes at the unknown technology, another bemused smile passing onto her face as Zhongli and Xiao took up protective stances in front of her. 

They both relaxed as the form of Shenhe, Ganyu, and Xianyun stepped onto the grass. “One does not understand why ones charges do not visit unless there is some dire situation!” Zhongli cleared his throat, getting Xianyun’ attention before she could continue ranting at the half qilin and exorcist pair. 

Ganyu and Xianyun both let out a small gasp upon seeing Elysia, while Shenhe studied the Goddess with an impassive expression. Ganyu bowed deeply to her, while Xianyun dipped her head respectfully as she took a step towards them. “One is pleased to see you in good health, Your Grace.”

Elysia stepped between Xiao and Zhongli, smiling at the new arrivals as she neared them. “Thank you, Cloud Retainer. It is wonderful to see the sky after so long in slumber.” 

Venti, who had remained quiet this entire time, stepped around Zhongli and Xiao to stop beside Elysia. “Is there anything you wish to do, Lady Elysia?” 

She turned to look at him, her long sparkling hair draping across her shoulder as she tilted her head in thought, tapping a finger against her chin. “I would like to travel across Teyvat, and see what has become of my land.” She turned back towards the newcomers, walking towards them as she studied the waypoint with her hands once again clasped behind her back. “How do I use this curious device? Is it connected to my Irminsul network, as my memory blossoms are?”

Unsure how to interact with the curious Creator, the group shuffled together to look at her, before Zhongli answered her question. “I believe so, Your Grace. Anyone who can control the elements is able to access the system by touching the device, and it connects to all the other waypoints or statues in the area.” He hesitated as she hummed in contemplation, walking around the device thrice as she studied it. “Would..you allow me the honour of showing you my city of Liyue Harbour?”

She glanced up to him with a slight smile, but was unable to respond before Venti cut in. “Your Grace, my city of Freedom, Mondstadt, would be an excellent place to begin your journey~ It is where wayward travellers often start!”

Before any more bickering could begin, she raised her hands up in a placating manner, “Patience, please, my cherubim. I intend to visit all of the stations, and will gladly welcome a knowledgeable tour-guide.” She noticed Ganyu nervously wringing her hands, and tilted her head at her. “Is there something wrong, dear Ganyu?”

The half-qilin looked up at her with a nervous smile, “I’m sorry for my forwardness, Your Grace, but Lady Ningguang asked me to invite you to her Jade Palace if you felt so inclined.”

Elysia smiled at her, nodding her head in acceptance. “Very well, that is where we shall start then.” She looked over each of her welcoming party in turn. “I greatly appreciate your concern for my well-being, however...I do not wish to travel with a large party.” She smiled softly, dampening the bluntness of her statement.

Those gathered each bowed their heads, with Venti waving his arms in front of himself to ward off her apology. “Of course, Your Grace! We will gladly accept whatever you wish of us!” Zhongli and Xiao both nodded their agreement, with Xianyun giving a slight harumph. 

Xiao bowed to her with a hand on his chest, “If you have need of me, Your Grace, merely call out my name and I will be there.” 

“One shall return to Yilong Wharf for the time being! Come Shenhe, one wishes to ‘catch up’ with you, as they say.” The tall adepti smiled at Elysia, bowing her head once again. “One hopes you have safe travels, Your Grace, and that we may meet again soon.”

Elysia smiled after the two, as Shenhe gave her a nod as they passed to touch the waypoint and teleport away once again. Venti looked like he was fighting the urge to latch onto her, as the stormy-haired woman turned back to the waypoint with a nod to Ganyu. “I shall ask you to input where we are going, Ganyu. I will meet with Ningguang before beginning my exploration.”

“O-of course, Your Grace.” Ganyu bowed to Zhongli with an apologetic grimace, before she walked up to stand right beside Elysia. “U-uhm, I will have to touch you to teleport us both together, Your Grace, I’m very sorry.” The nervous adepti selected the Jade Chamber teleport point, looking at Elysia for confirmation.

She smiled encouragingly at her, placing a hand on the younger womans’ shoulder. “There is no reason to apologize, dear adepti, it is quite all right.”

The two disappeared, with Ganyu’s cheeks growing rosy pink.

----

When it was only Xiao, Venti, and Zhongli remaining, the anemo god sighed as he sank to the ground. “Whoah.”

Zhongli chuckled slightly, crossing his arms across his chest. “Our Goddess truly seems to be a kind soul. I am glad the history that we were able to regain was right.”

Venti let out a nervous laugh, nodding along. “I was honestly a little worried that she would be like the Heavenly Principles. The winds of Teyvat sing in her presence though!”

Zhongli nodded as well, “As does the earth.” His expression turned more serious, as he looked at Xiao. “Nonetheless, I wish for you to stay near her, Xiao. We must ensure she is not harmed, as it would be a great sin for her to have any more pain. We must ensure her happiness and safety now that she is finally free to roam her land again.”

“Understood, Lord Lapis.” Xiao nodded, bowing to both Venti and Zhongli before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. 

Venti stood back up, stretching his arms high above his head before grinning widely at Zhongli. “Well! I’m off to Mondstadt to sing praises for our wonderfully beautiful Creator! I’ll make sure everyone in my City of Freedom is awaiting her arrival~” With a giggle, the anemo god propelled himself into the air on a gust of wind, waving goodbye to Zhongli before flitting away.

Zhongli shook his head at Barbatos’s always carefree nature, before using the waypoint himself.

[big-poppa23]

Glass Heart: Beautiful Boy

synapse: a few months have passed since the Games ended, and the surviving players, including y/n, are released back into the world. With in-ho and the games gone, she’s forced to navigate life on her own for the first time since she was fourteen. but before she can move forward, she knows she must face her past—and make things right with one person she cares about.

pairing: kang dae-ho x reader

contains: signs of depression, ptsd, kissing

parts: part one part two part three part four part five

a/n: this isn’t really part of the series. it’s an au of a perfect world for the ending we hope for to cope for the worst that might happen in season three. this is just my delusional ass giving my comfort character a happy ending but ill still be writing for him cuz I think he’s the most accurate written.

. . .

Several months had passed since the surviving players were thrust back into the world, the memories of the Games lingering like ghosts they couldn’t shake. Some returned to their lives still shackled by debt, others with fragments of fortune clutched tightly in their hands. But for Y/N, there was no return—just a slow descent into isolation.

She holed herself up in a hotel room, curtains half-drawn, sunlight spilling in only when she allowed it. Most days were spent sitting by the window, eyes glazed over as she watched the city move on without her. Dae-ho was out there somewhere, living his life, and she knew she could find him if she tried. But she didn’t. What was the point? He knew the truth now—who she was, who her father was. It wasn’t hard to imagine him wanting nothing to do with her.

And then there was In-ho, his absence like a wound she couldn’t close. He was gone, vanished from her life as if he’d never been there at all. All she did was replay the memory of In-ho meeting her at a hotel like this for the first time, asking to care and look out for her. The two people who had ever truly cared for her were now just memories—echoes that refused to fade. And with their departure, something inside her had hollowed out.

The winnings from her own Game, the blood-soaked prize she had once risked everything for, sat untouched. Money meant nothing when she could barely summon the will to get out of bed, when her days blurred together in silence and shadows. She existed in that hotel room—not living, not moving forward, just staring out the window at a world she no longer felt a part of.

And sometimes, in the stillness, she would wonder if surviving had really meant living.

She would sit in that worn leather chair by the window, fingers curled around the edges as if grounding herself to reality. The city lights blinked in the distance, indifferent to her solitude. Every night, she found herself listening—waiting—for a knock at the door.

She imagined it so vividly sometimes: In-ho standing there, his mask gone, eyes softened with the same rare warmth he showed her when she was fourteen. She pictured him stepping inside, reaching out to her like he used to, promising to take care of her, to make things right. He’d tell her she wasn’t alone. He’d make her feel safe again.

But the knock never came.

Her hotel room remained silent, the door untouched. In-ho was gone, his shadow no longer lingering in her life, and the only thing that greeted her was the hollow echo of her own thoughts.

He wasn’t coming back. And she was left to face that truth alone. And if she didn’t face it soon, she’d drown and would never be okay again.

. . .

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft patterns along the wooden floor. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound breaking the stillness. Dae-ho shuffled out of his room, hair tousled from sleep, dark circles etched beneath his eyes—a reminder of the nights spent wrestling with memories he couldn’t shake.

He made his way to the front door, reaching down to scoop up the pile of mail that had slipped through the slot. Bills, advertisements, letters addressed to his sister—all routine, all predictable. His gaze drifted over the stack until his eyes landed on a plain white envelope, his name neatly written across the front. No return address.

His brow furrowed as he set his sister’s mail aside and tore it open, his hands careful but unsteady. He unfolded the letter, the paper soft and slightly creased, like it had been handled more than once before finding its way to him.

For a moment, he just stared at it, recognizing the handwriting almost instantly. His breath caught in his throat, and he sank down into the nearest chair, eyes fixed on the letter as if it might vanish if he looked away. It was from her. He immediately read it.

‘Dae-ho, I don’t know where to start. I’ve written and rewritten this letter so many times, but I guess the truth is, there’s no perfect way to say what I need to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lies, the secrets, and the things I never told you. I never wanted to hurt you—I never wanted to be like him. I thought if I did what he asked, if I followed his plans, I’d finally earn his approval…or maybe just convince myself I wasn’t like him. But I see now that I was wrong. I hurt you. And that’s something I can never take back. I’m leaving Korea. I can’t stay here—not after everything that’s happened. I need to find out who I am outside of all of this…outside of him and my broken life. Maybe one day I’ll find that person. Maybe one day I’ll finally be able to look in the mirror and not see his reflection staring back at me. I left something for you. It’s not enough—not for what you went through—but it’s yours. It’s my way of trying to make things right, even if it’s just a little. I don’t want you to struggle. I don’t want you to hurt because of me. You deserve better than that. I won’t ask for your forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But I do hope you find peace, Dae-ho. Real peace. The kind I couldn’t give you because you’re special and I’m not worthy of that after all I’ve done. Thank you…for everything. For being the one good thing in all of this. I won’t forget it. I won’t forget you. —Y/N.’

Dae-ho’s hands trembled as he read the letter, eyes scanning each word slowly, as if trying to absorb every bit of it—her handwriting, familiar and careful, looping across the page. He could almost hear her voice as he read, soft and hesitant, like she always was when she was vulnerable.

His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears that blurred the ink on the paper. She was gone. Leaving Korea. The words echoed in his mind, refusing to settle, refusing to be real. His fingers traced the edges of the paper, feeling the slight indentations where she had pressed too hard with the pen—like she was fighting to keep her hand steady as she wrote. He paused at the part where she spoke of not wanting to be like him. He knew who she meant. The Front Man. Her father. The secret she kept buried so deep it nearly destroyed them both.

But what struck him the most was her confession—that she didn’t feel worthy of him. That after everything, she still thought she wasn’t good enough to deserve peace, happiness…him.

He inhaled sharply, folding the letter carefully as if it were made of glass. His gaze dropped to the envelope, and that’s when he noticed it—a smaller slip of paper, tucked inside, almost missed in his haste. He pulled it out and stared.

A check. His eyes went wide at the number scrawled across it. It was enough to clear his debts, enough to start over…enough to rebuild the life that had been taken from him in the Games. But none of it mattered. Not really. Because she was gone.

Dae-ho slumped back in his chair, letter clenched tightly in his hand, the check fluttering to the floor beside him. His heart pounded in his chest, the reality of it crashing over him in waves. He had promised himself he would find her after the Games, that he would see her again—but she was already gone.

Still, he wasn’t going to give up. He couldn’t.

The letter trembled in his hands, but his grip only tightened. She was out there somewhere, trying to outrun her past, trying to disappear. But he knew her—really knew her. She might have left Korea, but she couldn’t vanish entirely. Not from him.

Dae-ho looked down at the check on the floor, its corners curling slightly against the hardwood. It was her way of making amends, of closing the door on whatever they had shared. But to him, it wasn’t an ending—it was a beginning.

He scooped up the check, folding it neatly and slipping it back into the envelope. His jaw clenched with determination. He had survived the Games. He had faced death a hundred times over. Finding her would be nothing in comparison.

Because no matter how far she ran, he was going to find her. And this time, he wasn’t going to let her go.

. . .

The crowds bustled around him, a blur of faces and hurried footsteps, but Dae-ho moved with purpose. Her letter was still clutched tightly in his hand, the edges crumpled from his grip. He weaved through the streams of commuters, eyes sharp, gaze flickering over each sign as he made his way toward the train platforms.

He didn’t know exactly where she had gone, but he knew where to start. The airport. If she was leaving Korea, she would have to pass through there. He was sure of it.

DING. The train’s arrival bell echoed through the station, and Dae-ho broke into a sprint, slipping between people with murmured apologies as he barreled forward. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder that she was slipping further away with every second that passed.

He shoved through the sliding doors just before they sealed shut, collapsing into a seat and clutching the letter to his chest, breathing heavily. His mind raced with possibilities. Where would she go? How far would she run? The train lurched forward, the city blurring by outside the windows. He barely noticed, eyes fixed on the floor as he replayed every memory, every conversation, looking for clues he might’ve missed. Places she mentioned in passing, places she wanted to escape to…anywhere she’d feel free.

His fists clenched tighter around the letter. He couldn’t let this be the end. Not like this.

The train screeched to a stop at Incheon Airport Station, and Dae-ho shot to his feet, barely waiting for the doors to open before charging out into the platform. The bustling crowds barely registered as he sprinted up the escalator, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

He burst into the main concourse, eyes scanning the departure boards, searching desperately for any flight she might be on. His heart pounded, sweat slicking his palms as he moved frantically from one screen to the next.

And then—he saw her.

A flash of familiarity in the sea of strangers. Her figure moving steadily toward the security checkpoint, suitcase trailing behind her. His heart nearly stopped.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.

She didn’t turn.

“Y/N!” he yelled louder, his legs already moving before his mind could catch up. He darted through the crowd, shoving past travelers, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and sharp looks thrown his way. His eyes locked onto her, willing her to turn around, to just see him one more time.

But she kept moving.

Panic seized him as he pushed harder, sprinting faster until he was just a few feet behind her. His hand shot out, fingers grazing the sleeve of her coat. “Y/N!” he gasped, voice raw.

She stopped, her body going rigid at the sound of her name. Slowly, she turned around, eyes widening in shock as she took him in—breathless, desperate, still clutching her letter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The noise, the people, the chaos of the airport—it all vanished. It was just the two of them, standing still in the heart of the crowd.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go that easily, did you?” he said, voice shaking but resolute.

Her eyes shimmered, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came.

He stepped closer, gaze never leaving hers. “I’m not losing you. Not again.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and for the first time in months, he saw it—that crack in her guarded exterior. The vulnerability she’d tried so hard to hide. And Dae-ho knew then, without a doubt, that he had found her. And he wasn’t letting go.

She shook her head. “No, I’ll just ruin everything. I’m terrible and I’m paying for all I’ve done. I’m not good for anyone, not you-“

Dae-ho’s hands found her face before she could finish, his thumb brushing across her tear-streaked cheek, his grip firm but gentle. He didn’t give her the chance to pull away, not this time. His lips crashed against hers with a fervor born of desperation and raw emotion, as if he were trying to erase every ounce of pain, every regret that clung to her.

For a moment, she stiffened in his arms, but he held her closer, his other hand sliding to the back of her neck, guiding her to him, not letting her escape. This, this was what he needed—what he’d been searching for, even if it was only for a brief moment in time.

He kissed her as if he could erase the years of darkness she had lived through, the loneliness, the pain she tried so hard to hide. He kissed her the way he was dying too since the Games. She trembled in his arms, her walls cracking with each passing second. The hardness in her chest, the coldness that had been her shield, began to dissolve.

When he finally pulled away, breathless and shaky, their foreheads rested against each other. She stood there, looking up at him with wide eyes, trying to catch her breath. He met her gaze, the sincerity in his eyes impossible to deny.

“You don’t get to decide you’re not worthy of love,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve been through hell. But you’re not going through it alone anymore.”

She shook her head again, the weight of her guilt threatening to pull her back into her own isolation. “You don’t understand, Dae-ho. I don’t deserve this—deserve you.”

He took her hands in his, squeezing them gently. “You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to push me away just because you think you’re not good enough. I’m not walking away. I’ll stand by you, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. She wanted to pull away, wanted to keep running, but the pull of him—the care in his eyes, the warmth of his touch—it was like gravity, dragging her closer despite every instinct telling her to hold back.

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice soft yet unshakable. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to lean into him, her body giving way to the comfort of his embrace. “I’m scared,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

“I know,” he replied. “But we’ll face it together. We don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

She closed her eyes, her tears now falling freely, but there was a sense of relief, a sense of peace in his words. For the first time in so long, she wasn’t alone. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to be broken anymore.

Dae-ho didn’t hesitate. His hands cupped her face once more, thumbs gently brushing away the tears that had spilled over. His eyes searched hers for just a heartbeat, then he leaned in, capturing her lips with his in a kiss that was tender and unyielding all at once.

This time, she didn’t hold back. Her hands gripped the front of his jacket, clutching him desperately as if he might slip away if she let go. She kissed him back with a fierceness that surprised even her, pouring everything she couldn’t say into that single, breathless moment.

The noise of the airport faded into nothingness—the bustling crowds, the distant announcements, the hurried footsteps—all of it dissolved. It was just them, locked in that fragile, beautiful space where nothing else mattered.

When they finally broke apart, she stayed close, forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his own. Dae-ho’s hands didn’t leave her face, his eyes shining with determination.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispered, voice rough but steady.

Her grip tightened on his jacket, nodding as tears filled her eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just from pain—they were from hope.

“Promise me,” she whispered back, her voice cracking.

His gaze didn’t waver. “I promise.”

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

. . .

Years went by. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the grass where Dae-ho crouched behind a tree, his hands covering his mouth to stifle his laughter. Just a few feet away, their three-year-old daughter toddled around with her hands covering her eyes, counting loudly and giggling between numbers.

“…eight…nine…ten! Ready or not, here I come!” she called out, her tiny voice filled with determination. Dae-ho peeked out just enough for her to spot the edge of his jacket. Her eyes lit up with delight. “Got you, Appa!” she squealed, running toward him with all the enthusiasm her little legs could manage.

He jumped out from behind the tree, scooping her up as she shrieked with joy. “You found me again! You’re too good at this!” he laughed, spinning her around as she giggled uncontrollably.

A few feet away, Y/N watched the scene unfold with a smile, her heart swelling at the sight of them. She sat comfortably on a picnic blanket, the spring breeze brushing through her hair. Her gaze softened as she glanced down at the infant car seat beside her, where their newborn son had just started to stir, his little face scrunching up as he woke.

She reached over, unfastening him carefully and lifting him into her arms, cradling him gently. His tiny fists flailed for a moment before he settled against her warmth, eyes blinking up at her in sleepy confusion.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s got you,” she whispered soothingly, swaying back and forth as she stroked his soft cheek. He let out a small sigh, nestling against her chest.

From the field, Dae-ho approached, their daughter still perched on his shoulders, her hands gripping his hair as she waved enthusiastically. “Mommy, I found Daddy!” she announced proudly.

Y/N smiled, pressing a kiss to her son’s head. “I saw, sweetheart. You’re the best little seeker, aren’t you?”

She nodded confidently, her eyes shining with happiness as Dae-ho helped her down from his shoulders. “Next time, I hide!”

Dae-ho chuckled, reaching them and crouching down to kiss Y/N on the forehead before leaning in to brush his lips against their son’s tiny head. “You two okay over here?” he asked his wife softly.

She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with warmth. “More than okay.”

For the first time in a long time, life was exactly as it should be. Peaceful. Whole. Filled with love.

[catiecat1320]

Sonadowtober Prompt 21: Reincarnation

For one of my AUs, Echoes

The reincarnates do use different names!! Relevant ones are: Synth - Sonic Echo - Shadow Ami (Amaryllis) - Amy And EGGMAN (Endo-Genetic Graft: Main Alternate Network) is an AI with the original Eggman's mind

Additional context in AO3 endnotes :)

Read Below🔽

Synth smashes through the last robot, cheering as sparks fly and its digital screen flickers out. “Score! I think I win this one, Echo.”

The black hedgehog rolls his eyes, flicking his bangs out of his face. “It’s not a competition. Be serious for a moment. I don’t think this is everything EGGMAN has up its sleeve.”

“Psh,” Synth scoffs. “That computer has nothing against us.” He ignores the way Echo shakes his head, blowing a raspberry at the nearest camera before opening his communicator. “Ami! We’re done!”

“That’s great! Just give us a second to wrap things up—” She’s interrupted by a sudden tilt of the shuttle, throwing everyone and everything not tethered off balance. Synth slammed into the nearest railing with a yelp, barely managing to roll aside as the bot he just crushed slid off the side to meet the sky. 

If it stopped at that, they would’ve been fine, but…

The entire ship lurched the other way, gaining speed until it flipped over entirely, leaving Synth dangling precariously on the railing lest he fall off. “W-what in Chaos was that?!”

“I don’t know!” Ami’s voice came through, crackled with static. “Are you all alright out there?”

“I…”

I am, he meant to say. But it’s then the realization dawns on him that it hadn’t just been him on the deck.

“Echo?”

The hedgehog is nowhere to be seen. Not as lucky as Synth to have grabbed on before their surprise roll, he’d likely been dumped on a trip through the atmosphere.

…an one-way trip.

“Echo!”

A sinking feeling of deja vu hits him like a truck. 

“Not again…” Synth breathes, shallow, panicked, “not again…” He combs the sky below for any sight of Echo. How hard is it to see—? 

Black, but a spot in a sea of blue and white.

Ignoring the concerned voices from his communicator, he lets go without a second thought.

By the time he’s freefalling, it’s too late to think about how stupid that was, so he zones in on his target. The more he focuses, however, the more other things overtake his vision. 

Funny how things worked, huh? Days spent watching his friends regain their past lives one by one, his lost far beyond him despite many attempts, and it takes this to kickstart it.

Not black among blue, but gold. A mere dot in space, but it grows, into a star, fading, backlit by the marbled Earth… horror floods his veins as he dives, reaching out with a hand that wasn’t his, at a hedgehog he does not recognize, only to receive a serene smile and be waved away.

He feels a sadness like he’s never felt, deep and hollowing, and even worse is the suffocating failure—

Synth slams into Echo, knocking the breath out of both of them as he wraps his arms around the other and flips them around from the force of impact. For a moment it’s just gasping and the ringing in his ears that Synth hears.

Memories from a life past fade into the back of his head, but the dread lingers. He attempts to remedy that by cuddling as close to the other hedgehog as he and the gravity pulling at them would allow.

“...Synth? Synth?”

“Mmph.” Synth buries his face in the crook of Echo’s neck, his heart beating far more rapidly than he would like. He hoped the other hedgehog couldn’t feel it. Which was likely impossible.

Eventually he pulls away with a broken laugh. “Sorry. I… uh…”

No longer hugging each other, the two hedgehogs link hands and fall back to a stomach-down position, the extra surface area helping slow their descent as much as possible.

Echo mouths something, unheard with the wind filling both their ears. When Synth doesn’t respond, he says it again, then again. “Are you okay?”

That’s sure a question. Synth doesn’t have an answer for that. “I… suppose?” 

Too quiet to hear as well, evident in the other’s still concerned face. He speaks louder. “As okay as I can be while falling to my death!”

Echo cringes and squeezes his eyes shut, threatening to snap a few joints in Synth’s hands as he tightens his grip. 

Fear.

Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned falling to their deaths. Synth’s thrown back to gold and black and blue again. “It’ll be okay, Shadow!”

Echo’s second name falls out of his mouth before he can stop himself. But it does the trick of catching the black hedgehog’s attention, and in the moment that he looks up, Synth sees someone else in that familiar face.

“You never use…” Echo trails off to something incomprehensible, the wind whipping in their quills carrying away his words before Synth could hear. But it’s something of surprise, if his expression was anything to go by.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?! The first thing I remember is you!” The beginning of a smile graces Echo’s face at that, but it’s immediately replaced by shock as a cyan glow envelopes the both of them and stops them mid-fall.

“Silver!” They jinx. The white hedgehog is far from amused, locking eyes with Synth.

“Why in Chaos would you jump?!”

“You jumped? Off the shuttle?” Echo stares at the increasingly sheepish hedgehog. “You jumped?!”

“Look—”

“Good Gaia, Synth, how stupid are you?! You could’ve died!”

“You could’ve died too!”

“And how was jumping after me supposed to help?”

“Can you two cut out the flirting for a moment?” Silver interrupts, deadpan, making both flush with embarrassment. “They still need help up there.”

“Right, right!” Synth jumps at the opportunity to change the topic. “Let’s go!”

[atinyslittleworld]

Light: The Descent

demon king!seonghwa x angel!reader

Summary: The mighty King of the Underworld, Seonghwa, gets intrigued by a little angel, whose light is intoxicating

Genre: angst, au, romance

Warnings: signs of depression, brainwashing by a demon

<previous part

Life in the underworld had become a torment for Y/N. Stripped of her celestial light, she struggled to adjust to her new existence as a fallen angel. The once radiant beacon of hope and purity now found herself enveloped in an overwhelming darkness. The weight of her wings, now a muted grey, mirrored the heaviness in her heart. The warmth that once filled her soul had been replaced by a cold, consuming void.

Seonghwa watched helplessly as Y/N sank deeper into despair. Each day, her sadness grew more palpable, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach her. He offered her comfort, distractions, and even the treasures of his dark kingdom, but nothing seemed to lift her spirits. The love that had once sparked joy in their hearts now seemed like a distant memory.

One night, as Seonghwa sat on his throne, his thoughts consumed by worry for Y/N, she entered the room. Her movements were slow, her eyes void of the light that once defined her. She approached him, her steps hesitant but purposeful.

"Y/N," Seonghwa said softly, rising to meet her. "How are you feeling?"

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with a desperate longing. "I don't know who I am anymore, Seonghwa. I feel so lost.”

Seonghwa reached out, gently cupping her face. "You are still the same Y/N I fell in love with. Your light may have dimmed, but your spirit remains."

Y/N shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I can't feel it, Seonghwa. I can't feel anything but this emptiness."

In a moment of desperation, Y/N closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was intense, filled with a raw need that startled Seonghwa. He could feel the despair in her touch, the way she clung to him as if he were her only anchor.

Seonghwa pulled back, his eyes searching hers. "Y/N, what's wrong? This isn't like you."

Y/N's eyes were glazed over, her thoughts clouded by a darkness that wasn't her own. "I need to feel something, anything," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, Seonghwa."

A chilling realization struck Seonghwa. He sensed a sinister presence in the room, an energy that wasn't his own. One of his demons was manipulating Y/N's thoughts, feeding on her vulnerability. His anger flared, his protective instincts kicking in.

"Stop this," Seonghwa commanded, his voice echoing through the dark halls. "Show yourself!"

A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, a smirk playing on its lips. The demon bowed mockingly. "Oh, mighty King, I was merely having a bit of fun."

Seonghwa's eyes blazed with fury. "You dare to toy with her mind? She is under my protection!"

The demon's smirk widened. "But look at her, Seonghwa. She's so fragile, so easy to manipulate. I thought I was doing you a favor."

Seonghwa's grip tightened around Y/N, his rage barely contained. "Leave now, before I tear you apart."

The demon laughed, its form dissolving into the shadows. "As you wish, my King. But remember, even in the underworld, darkness can be quite persuasive."

As the demon vanished, Seonghwa turned his attention back to Y/N. She looked at him with confusion and fear, her earlier desperation replaced by a hollow emptiness.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," Seonghwa whispered, holding her close. "I won't let anything harm you. We'll find a way through this, together."

Y/N clung to him, her body trembling. "I'm so scared, Seonghwa. I don't know how to fight this darkness."

Seonghwa stroked her hair, his heart breaking for her. "You don't have to fight it alone. I'm here with you, every step of the way. We'll find your light again, I promise."

Days turned into weeks, and Seonghwa dedicated himself to helping Y/N reclaim her light. He sought out ancient texts, consulted with wise spirits, and even ventured into the deepest parts of the underworld in search of answers. But the path to restoring her light was elusive, and Y/N's depression grew deeper.

One night, as Y/N sat in their chamber, staring blankly at the flickering flames, Seonghwa approached her with a gentle touch. "Y/N, can you hear me?"

She turned to him, her eyes reflecting the torment within. "I hear you, Seonghwa. But I can't find my way back."

Seonghwa knelt beside her, taking her hands in his. "I know it's hard. I know you feel lost. But I won't give up on you. We will find a way, no matter how long it takes."

Y/N's eyes filled with tears. "Why do you love me so much? I'm not the same anymore."

Seonghwa's gaze was unwavering. "Because I see the real you, the Y/N who brought warmth and light to my world. You are still that person, and I love you with all my heart."

Y/N leaned into his embrace, finding solace in his unwavering love. "Thank you, Seonghwa. I don't know what I'd do without you."

As they held each other in the darkness, a spark of hope flickered within Y/N. Though the journey ahead was uncertain and filled with challenges, she knew that with Seonghwa by her side, they could face anything. Their love, forged in the balance of light and dark, was a beacon that would guide them through even the darkest of times.

[moonsharky]

eddie unscripted

read from the beginning

rating: teen | current full word count: 50,331 | pairing: buck/eddie

tags: Post S7, Alternate s8, its like an au but not, like a cross between "it takes two" game and "the hollow" on netflix but also different, Pining Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)

level two: in the pages

The fall feels endless, like they're sliding through time itself, the slick surface beneath them curving and twisting with no clear direction. It's a strange sensation, almost like they're being funnelled through some kind of tunnel, the walls impossibly smooth and just close enough to graze their arms as they descend. The darkness around them pulses with a faint, rhythmic glow that ebbs and flows in a mesmerising pattern, casting brief, disorienting glimpses of the smooth walls around them. At one point, the tunnel seems to twist impossibly, spiralling into a tight coil that sends them both spinning out of control. Eddie feels his stomach lurch as gravity shifts, the direction of their slide changing so abruptly that he loses all sense of up and down. The smooth walls close in around them, squeezing them together in the tight spiral before suddenly releasing them back into a wider section of the tunnel. The air grows cooler as they continue to plummet, a chill that seeps deep into Eddie's bones, making him shiver involuntarily. The tunnel begins to billow, like a serpent writhing in slow motion, and with each heave, the force of their descent accelerates. Eddie can hear the rush of air around them, the sound rising in pitch as they pick up speed. He clutches onto Buck's arm with all of his strength, the two of them locked together in a desperate attempt to stay connected amidst the ride. There's a sharp turn that whips them to the side, their bodies pressed together as the tunnel banks hard to the left, then back to the right, twisting like a labyrinth designed to disorient and confuse. Just as Eddie thinks they might be trapped in this endless descent forever, the tunnel begins to level out, the steep angle giving way to a gentler slope. The wind in his ears fades slightly, the sense of speed diminishing as the floor beneath them becomes less slick. But the relief is short lived; the tunnel opens up suddenly, flaring out into a wide, yawning space that sends them both tumbling through the air. Theres a sickening jerk as they drop, their momentum throwing them forward, and Eddie braces himself for impact.

continue on ao3

[pengujoon]

NOW I AM BECOME DEATH, DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

cont. what would happen if the strongest fell over into the dark side? gojo satoru-centric, psychopath gojo, villain!au, graphic depiction of violence, blood and gore.

a/n. viewer discretion is highly highly advised.

Satoru had always been known for his boundless energy and charismatic personality, a shining beacon of hope in the world of Jujutsu Sorcerers. But lately, a shadow had crept over his once-bright spirit, casting a pall of sadness upon him.

It wasn’t a sudden transformation, but a gradual erosion of his vitality. The relentless weight of responsibility, the ceaseless battles against malevolent curses, and the unending demands of his role had taken their toll. Satoru, the paragon of inspiration and leadership, had become a prisoner of his own obligations.

Each morning, he awoke with a leaden heart, the prospect of another day filled with dread. The genuine smiles that had once adorned his face had become rare, replaced by artificial facades masking the profound despair that now resided within him.

As days turned into weeks, Satoru found himself drifting further away from the passions that once defined him. His beloved hobby of teaching and mentoring young sorcerers had lost its lustre, becoming a monotonous chore. The intricacies of Jujutsu techniques, which used to fascinate him, now felt like burdensome routines.

Even the simple pleasures of life, like savouring a cup of tea or gazing at the setting sun, had lost their appeal. The world around him seemed to blur into a grey landscape, devoid of colour or meaning.

Friends and colleagues noticed the change in him, but he brushed off their concerns with a forced grin, unwilling to burden them with his inner turmoil. The new world he had once dreamed of, a place where people could find solace and inspiration, remained a distant vision, fading with each passing day.

Satoru’s descent into apathy was a slow, painful journey. He no longer recognised the person he had become, a hollow shell of his former self. The world of curses and sorcery had claimed not only his body but his spirit as well, leaving him adrift in a sea of indifference.

One evening, after a particularly gruelling battle, Satoru stood alone in a dimly lit alley. His clothes were torn, his body battered, but it wasn’t the physical pain that tormented him. It was the emptiness, the numbness that had settled deep within his soul.

He gazed at his reflection in a puddle on the ground, and for the first time, he didn’t recognise the person staring back at him. The sparkle in his eyes had dimmed, and his once vibrant spirit felt like a distant memory.

Satoru leaned against a cold brick wall and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to wash over him. He no longer cared about being the hero, about protecting others, about the fate of the Jujutsu world.

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and he was spiralling into a void of apathy.

Days turned into weeks, and Satoru withdrew from his friends and colleagues. He isolated himself, seeking solace in the silence of his apartment. The world outside felt distant and insignificant.

His training sessions became brutal, a way to release the pent-up frustration and despair. He pushed himself to the limit, not out of a sense of duty but to feel something, anything other than the numbness that had consumed him.

One night, as he sat in the darkness of his apartment, Satoru whispered to himself, “I can’t do this anymore.”

And in that moment, he let go.

He let go of the expectations, the responsibilities, the need to be the hero. He surrendered to the darkness, allowing it to engulf him completely.

He no longer cared about the consequences, about the lines he had sworn never to cross.

He was falling, and he didn’t want to be saved.

He wanted to lose himself in the abyss, to become one with the darkness that had become his refuge.

It was a descent into the unknown, a journey into the darkest corners of his soul. And as he fell deeper, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was any way to climb back out, to rediscover the person he used to be before the darkness had claimed him.

Satoru’s descent into darkness was swift and unrelenting. The man who had once been a beacon of hope and strength had now become a shadow of his former self, consumed by the very darkness he had sworn to combat.

He ceased to be the charismatic leader of the Jujutsu Sorcerers, the one who inspired and protected others.

Instead, he became a symbol of fear and dread, a force to be reckoned with, and not in a heroic way. His powers, once a means of defense, now became tools of destruction.

Satoru no longer cared about the lives of those around him. He saw curses and humans alike as mere obstacles, obstacles to be eliminated without remorse. His attacks became merciless, his cruelty unforgiving.

The Jujutsu world watched in horror as Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, descended into darkness. His former allies attempted to intervene, to bring him back from the abyss, but he shrugged them off with cold indifference.

The more he embraced the darkness, the more powerful he became. It was as if the curse energy that flowed through him had been tainted, transformed into a malevolent force that defied all laws of nature. Satoru revelled in this newfound strength, using it to sow chaos and destruction wherever he went.

His apathy had turned into something far more sinister — a calculated, deliberate cruelty that left a trail of devastation in its wake. He no longer recognised himself, but he didn’t care. There was a perverse satisfaction in embracing the darkness, in becoming the very thing he had sworn to destroy.

The curses, once his enemies, now bowed before him in reverence. They saw him as a god of destruction, a being who revelled in chaos and despair. And Satoru, in his twisted state, relished their adoration.

The world outside was no longer of any consequence to him. He had become a solitary force, a harbinger of doom, and he had no intention of turning back. The Jujutsu Sorcerer world had lost its greatest hero, and in his place stood a monster.

As he roamed the darkened streets, his laughter echoed through the night, a chilling sound that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it. Satoru had fully embraced the abyss, and there was no turning back from the path of darkness he had chosen.

Years had passed since Satoru’s descent into darkness. He had become one of the most feared and notorious curse users in the Jujutsu world. His power had grown to unimaginable levels, and he had left a trail of destruction in his wake.

Satoru Gojo crept back into the heart of Jujutsu Tech, his once-revered presence now a shadow of malevolence. He had once stood as a paragon of wisdom, but now his intentions dripped with sinister purpose. Deep within, he nursed a blackened desire — to annihilate Jujutsu Tech High, the sacred ground where he had once been the beacon of enlightenment to young sorcerers. His motives were veiled in the darkest of ambitions — a relentless craving to seize the school's concealed vault, a trove brimming with cursed instruments and malefic artifacts.

As he entered the school building, he couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of nostalgia. The hallways that had once echoed with laughter and camaraderie were now filled with dread and despair. Students and sorcerers alike averted their gaze, unable to meet his eyes, knowing that this was their only way of surviving. Anything more that poses as an obstacle would be exterminated with nothing left to mourn for.

It was then that he encountered a group of familiar faces — his former students. They had grown into powerful sorcerers themselves, but the shock of seeing their former teacher as a curse user sent shockwaves through their ranks.

Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji — the trio that had once been his pride and joy — stood before him, their expressions a mix of disbelief and horror. They had heard the rumors, but seeing Satoru again in the flesh, clad in the dark aura of a curse user, was a harrowing experience.

Satoru regarded them with a cold, detached gaze. Gone was the warmth and affection he had once shown them. Now, he saw them as nothing more than obstacles to his goal.

“You’re in my way,�� he growled, his voice a chilling echo. “Move aside.”

Megumi, determined but trembling, stepped forward. “Gojo-sensei, we won’t let you continue down this path of darkness. We’ll stop you, no matter the cost.”

Satoru’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Oh, do try.”

With a mere flick of his hand, he unleashed a torrent of cursed energy, a maelstrom of malevolence that sent the trio hurtling through the air. Their bodies collided with walls, and their screams of agony reverberated through the desolate halls.

Satoru had become an embodiment of pure malevolence, a being who thrived on torment and despair. The students who had once revered him as a mentor now faced a monstrous aberration that defied reason.

As they prepared for a battle unlike any they had faced before, Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji knew that their former teacher was lost to them. He had become a creature of darkness, an adversary beyond their wildest nightmares.

The battle that unfolded within the hallowed halls of Jujutsu Tech was a clash of despair, a confrontation between former teacher and students that none of them had ever anticipated.

Satoru stood unscathed as the trio launched their most powerful attacks. Cursed techniques, shikigami, and sheer brute strength were thrown at him with all their might, but it was as if their efforts were nothing more than a gentle breeze against an unyielding mountain.

Satoru’s dark aura enveloped him like a shroud, an impenetrable barrier that deflected their every assault. He moved with a malevolent grace, evading their attacks with a sadistic amusement. It was as if he had transcended the very laws of nature, becoming an unstoppable force of destruction.

Nobara’s straw dolls, once wielded with precision, were swatted aside like insects. Megumi’s shikigami, symbols of his strength, crumbled under the weight of Satoru’s overwhelming curse energy, shattered like porcelain. Yuji, the embodiment of raw power, charged with a roar of defiance, but his strike was effortlessly sidestepped by Satoru. With a casual flick of his hand, Yuji was sent crashing into the wall, a broken puppet.

Satoru observed them with sadistic delight, his cerulean eyes devoid of any humanity. “Is this all you’ve got?” he mocked. “Pathetic.”

The trio’s faces contorted with desperation and terror. They had honed their skills, faced insurmountable odds, but it was clear that they were outmatched by the abyss that had consumed their former mentor.

Satoru remained an impassive figure, an uncaring spectre as their attacks washed over him like insignificant waves. He had become invulnerable, an entity immune to their every effort.

Megumi clenched his teeth, a simmering rage burning within him. He refused to accept that their former mentor had become so monstrously powerful. But the evidence was undeniable, and denial was a luxury they could ill afford.

Nobara, her resolve unyielding, unleashed a relentless barrage of nails imbued with cursed energy. They struck Satoru’s form, but it was akin to pelting a mountain with pebbles. Satoru didn’t flinch; he didn’t bother to evade.

Yuji, his fists brimming with cursed energy, charged forward with a scream of defiance. He unleashed his most devastating attack, a punch that should have shattered the very earth. But it struck Satoru head-on, and the impact sent shockwaves through the area.

Satoru’s form flickered momentarily, as if affected by Yuji’s assault. But then, to the trio’s horror, he reappeared unscathed, a malevolent grin etched across his face.

“You fools,” Satoru taunted, “playtime's finished.”

With a single motion, Satoru unleashed a devastating wave of curse energy that sent them hurtling through the air. They convulsed in torment, their forms contorted by the malefic force surging within them. They crashed into walls, pillars, and the unforgiving ground, their bodies battered and broken.

As they struggled to get back on their feet, their strength waning, Satoru approached them with an eerie calmness. He had become an embodiment of malevolence, a being untouched by empathy or compassion.

“You all were always a disappointment,” he muttered, his voice laced with contempt as he stood over them. “I expected more from my students.”

He sneered, his words cutting deep. “Weak and naive. You thought you could save me? You thought you could change me? Pathetic.”

With a flick of his finger, he sent a surge of curse energy that enveloped them, their screams echoing through the once-hallowed halls. The trio writhed in agony, their bodies contorted by the malevolent power that coursed through them.

In that horrifying moment, they realised the true extent of the darkness that now defined their former teacher. He had become an irredeemable monster, a harbinger of despair beyond measure. They were trapped in a nightmarish confrontation with their own creation, a manifestation of their failure and powerlessness.

With a flick of his hand, he dispelled the cursed energy that held Megumi, Nobara, and Yuji in agonising paralysis. They collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, their bodies trembling with pain.

But Satoru didn’t spare them a second glance.

They were lucky to not have him kill them all at that very moment.

He turned away from his fallen students and began to walk through the school, his steps slow and deliberate. Memories of his time as a teacher here flickered through his mind, but they held no emotion for him now. They were nothing more than distant echoes of a past he no longer cared about.

The hallway that had once been filled with laughter and camaraderie was now a scene of devastation. But Satoru felt nothing. His heart had turned to ice, and his soul was a barren wasteland of apathy.

As he moved through the hallways, his very presence wreaked havoc. The walls cracked and crumbled, the ceiling caved in, and the floor beneath his feet shattered. It was as if the school itself was groaning in agony, unable to withstand the overwhelming curse energy that radiated from him.

Satoru’s apathy was a destructive force. He didn’t discriminate between friend or foe; everything in his path was a target for his wanton destruction. The classrooms where he had once imparted knowledge were reduced to rubble. The training grounds where he had honed the skills of his students were torn apart.

He walked through the chaos, his eyes vacant and his heart devoid of feeling. The very essence of his being had been consumed by darkness, and he had become a harbinger of despair.

Students and sorcerers who crossed his path cowered in fear, their attempts to stop him futile. His power was unmatched, his apathy unyielding. He had become a force of nature, a cataclysmic event that left destruction in its wake.

As he reached the heart of the school, the place where he had once taught and mentored his students, he paused for a moment. The memories of those days brushed against his consciousness, but he brushed them aside with a cold indifference.

With a wave of his hand, he unleashed a devastating surge of cursed energy that obliterated the very foundations of the building. The school that had once been a symbol of hope and learning crumbled to the ground, reduced to a pile of rubble and dust.

As the dust and debris settled, Satoru stood alone in the midst of the destruction he had wrought. He felt nothing, no remorse, no satisfaction, only a profound emptiness.

He had become a living embodiment of apathy, a curse user without a shred of humanity left. The school that had once been his home was now a graveyard of memories, a testament to the darkness that had consumed him.

He continued to walk, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, his apathy a stark reminder of the depths to which he had fallen. The world had changed, and Satoru Gojo had become a force of chaos, a curse user without remorse, without humanity, and without redemption.

Amid the desolation he had wrought, Satoru’s apathetic eyes fixated on a hidden entrance beneath the rubble of Jujutsu Tech’s main building. It was a place he had frequented during his time as a teacher — a secret vault where cursed objects of immense power were stored away, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world.

Though his heart had turned cold and his soul had descended into darkness, Satoru had not lost sight of his goals. He had come to the school not only to unleash chaos but also to retrieve these cursed objects, each one a source of untold power.

With a casual gesture, he cleared away the debris blocking the entrance to the vault. The heavy metal door creaked open, revealing a chamber filled with shelves upon shelves of cursed objects. They gleamed with malevolence, each one radiating a dark energy that matched Satoru’s own.

His apathetic demeanour did not waver as he scanned the room. He knew exactly which cursed objects he sought, and he wasted no time in finding them. With a swift, efficient motion, he collected the objects and placed them in a black bag that seemed to absorb their sinister aura.

These cursed objects were the key to furthering his descent into darkness, to becoming an even greater threat to the world. Satoru had forsaken his role as a protector of humanity, and now he sought to wield the very curses he had once sworn to destroy.

As he exited the vault, the ruined school lay behind him, a stark reminder of the destruction he had wrought. But Satoru was not concerned with the aftermath; he was apathetic to the suffering he had caused.

With the cursed objects in his possession, he disappeared into the night, leaving behind a world forever scarred by his apathetic descent into darkness and the malevolent power he had acquired. The Jujutsu Sorcerer world had a new, and perhaps even more formidable, threat to contend with — one of their own.

Satoru’s descent had plunged him into a bloodthirsty madness, and he revelled in the gruesome spectacle that lay before him - the corpses of those who dared to oppose him or had simply crossed his path.

Was he sorry that they met their end this way? If Satoru had that little bit of humanity left in him, maybe, but he simply couldn’t be bothered anymore.

His once apathetic demeanour had transformed him into a manic hunger for violence and carnage he left in his wake. The world had become his canvas, and the spilled blood of his victims his masterpiece.

Every step he took was marked by splatters of blood, as he eviscerated everyone who dared to even stand in his way. Friend or foe, he couldn’t be bothered anymore. His eyes, once filled with mirth, now gleamed with a sadistic delight.

Coming across a new group of naive sorcerers hoping to take him down as he left the vault, he let out a cold and emotionless chuckle, unleashing his cursed energy with brutal precision. The air crackled with malevolence as their now lifeless forms were torn asunder, blood and viscera splattering in all directions.

Satoru’s laughter rang out like a demented symphony as he revelled in the gruesome spectacle. His hands moved with a fluid brutality, tearing their bodies apart with an unholy fervour.

It was a scene of unbridled savagery, a bloodbath that defied all reason and humanity.

Limbs were severed, bodies torn asunder, bones snapped and cracked, the air filling with the sickening sounds of flesh tearing. He tore limbs from torsos, severed heads from necks, and ripped bodies apart with an insatiable appetite for gore.

Blood sprayed across his face and soaked his clothes, but he paid it no mind.

In fact, he relished the sensation of warm blood against his skin, the metallic scent filling his nostrils in a horrifyingly comforting manner. The stench of death and decay hung heavy in the air, but to Satoru, it was a tantalising aroma that sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.

Blood sprayed and splattered, painting the white walls and streets in a nightmarish tableau of crimson. Satoru’s eyes gleamed with madness, his thirst for violence insatiable.

But he wasn’t finished.

With a final, sadistic flourish, he unleashed a torrent of cursed energy that tore through the already mutilated corpses, reducing them to a gruesome pile of mangled flesh and bone, the sight unbearable to the normal eye.

Reaching a fever pitch, Satoru’s laughter echoed through the streets as he revelled in the gruesome display of power - a symphony of carnage, a ballet of death, and he alone was the conductor of this macabre orchestra.

As he stood amidst the blood-soaked carnage, his clothes stained with the evidence of his sadistic indulgence, Satoru felt an intoxicating rush of power and pleasure; his decent into darkness had reached its nadir, and he revelled in the depths of his psychopathic bloodlust.

“Now I am become death,” he whispered, his voice a chilling echo in the stillness of the night. He stood amidst the wreckage, the mangled bodies of those who had dared to challenge him strewn at his feet, their pitiful cries silenced forever.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie pallor over the scene. Satoru’s eyes gleamed with apathy as he stepped on their bodies, the sickening crunch of bone and flesh deafening through the silence.

The world trembled in the presence of this malevolent force, and there was no turning back from the abyss he had willingly entered.

“The destroyer of worlds.”

i've never really wrote anything like this before, but the newest episode really explored a whole new genre of satoru, prompting me to imagine what it's like if he fell over into the darkness - how heartless and cruel could he be if he really chose to.

[spycemel]

GOD DAMN THE SUN

Turns out that WIP was not staying a WIP for long.

So here! Have my Angel Radiance design, fully colored and shaded :D

I'm invested in this now so I'm gonna try and make a design for the Vessels, I have a bunch of ideas for them :DDD

[fallen-in-dreams]

Also on AO3.

Pairing: Gaara/Sakura.

Summary: Her descent into madness came after her friends were all dead and before she was sold off like livestock. To him. He knew a thing or two about madness. And there was peace to be found in the violence of that madness. Even if only for a time. Canon divergence AU.

Rated: Mature.

Chapter word count: 4,916.

Status: Ongoing.

Author note: This is a Danzo-won-and-is-Hokage fic. [Further information on AO3.]

Warnings: dark themes. Arranged marriage (not what you think). Eventual smut (level and degree of that warning being necessary is subjective). Death. Suicide talk. Self-harm. PTSD – expect some well-known symptoms and some not well-known ones. Please don’t read if you’re triggered by psychological &/or emotional-related trauma and effects.

. Beautiful Lie: A lie that furthers the happiness/prosperity of others at self-cost. Commonly looked upon as a true show of love or friendship due to the self-sacrificial nature of the action. .

Tumblr version:

… Chapter One: Broken. ...

.:.

I used to see in colour Now it’s a wave of grey Feel and pull me under Drowning in the disarray There’s no escape

-- Closing In, by Ruelle.

.:.

The darkness was setting in, the air was cooling, and the birds were chirping. The stench of death hadn’t scared them away. It was only the dying sun that wavered as it filtered down through the tops of the trees above her, with soft beams of shifting light. What little illumination could be seen was beginning its silent, slow end-of-the-day death. And the soft breeze that precipitated the cold night air brought only the stench of dead bodies to her nose. She was surrounded and it wouldn’t be long before the fauna that wriggled under the forest floor would claw their way into the night.

To feed. To crawl into the hollowed-out tree stump she’d been using for cover.

Only prickly shrubbery that had germinated its way up into the stump through dead roots to fill in the empty carcass of what used to be a tree would be witness to that humiliating end. However, the threat of carnivores or bugs or whatever might have a taste for her flesh was not the problem. They were nothing compared to the heavy footsteps of what was hunting her. Those predators who did not eat their prey.

Foreign shinobi.

Sakura Haruno was used to this by now, but it never failed to surprise her how often it happened. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission. She was supposed to stay out of the territory she was watching but shit had happened and now her whole team was dead. She felt a stab of pain, remembering how the two Shinobi she barely knew had met their fate at the hands of her hunters. The memory of their screams was the only thing keeping her from jumping out of her hiding spot and attacking these animals. There had been no rhyme or reason to their barbarity. And she had no reasoning to excuse a brazen attack on them now. Not in her pitiful state.

I would not survive.

And it would be a slow end. But really, was that such a bad thing? Did she actually care about that, after everything?

She sighed as quietly as she could, closing her eyes. All ninja could sense nearby chakra, though the chakra needed to be powerful or released in large quantities for that to happen: those words were straight from the ninja handbook. So, it surprised Sakura when the foreign ninja began patrolling through the area, expelling chakra from themselves like they were trying to alert her to their positions. Or using it like echolocation to ping her position.

Maybe they’re just toying with me. Fuckers.

There were enough of them that she was not only surrounded, but out of her league, especially in her broken condition. Instinctively, Sakura attempted to push her chakra signature down even further. There was no need to do so really, as she had already supressed it as much as humanly possible, and her chakra reserves were practically empty anyway.

Her captain had killed the enemy sensory ninja in his final explosion of chakra, which nearly took out half the fucking forest, but it wouldn’t be long before they sent for another one. All Sakura could hope for was that recovering her beaten body wasn’t worth scouring the forest all night. She could pretend to be a part of the dead tree trunk that was currently digging into her back as if it too viewed her as an enemy and wanted to punish her for her oversight. Knees under her chin. Arms wrapped around her legs. Like a child.

The muffled sounds of unfamiliar voices made her eyes snap open, and it took all of Sakura’s self-control not to gasp loudly at the sudden intrusion to her peripherals. Someone sat in the undergrowth of the next tree over, staring at her. On the edge of her vision, it was just a blur. A mirage. But as she slowly turned her head, her heart racing, her palm sweating, Sakura’s vision suddenly cleared.

Eyes wide and breath hitching, she bit her lip to keep from gasping in surprise.

It was an image of herself. Something human shaped that was wearing her face. A face that was broken and bruised. A body that was covered in gashes. Clothes that were torn and bloodied. A long, open gash on her face; like someone had taken a blade and cut her slowly in one ragged line from the top of her right ear and down to the bottom of her left cheek. The path of its destruction was remarkably similar to a wound she’d endured six months ago. But bloodier. And more brutal. Of course, the real Sakura had healed it perfectly while bleeding profusely as her chakra waned, in the middle of yet another battle that could’ve been avoided with better intel.

What is this thing looking at me? Looking like me?

Sakura closed her eyes again, willing it to just leave. It looked too much like a past version of herself. But when she tentatively opened her eyes again, it was still there, sitting on its haunches like a wild animal in human form and staring right at her, looking through her, unblinkingly. Intently. As though waiting for her to acknowledge its existence. She couldn’t control the trembling of her body.

I must have a concussion.

This wasn’t right. It took her a few minutes to calm down and she still wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating or not. What the hell was this thing? Staring, silent, and creepy, that’s what. Sakura sighed at her silent companion.

I’m definitely going crazy.

Even in her delusion she dared not utter a sound. She wanted to reach out and touch the phantom, to see if she really had lost all her marbles. If it was an enemy jutsu then her position would be overrun by now. No, this was something else. But she couldn’t move. A few inches too much in any direction and her movement would alert her position to the enemy. The enemy who apparently wasn’t trying to psychologically scar her after all.

Enemy.

She inwardly scoffed at that. Several years ago, they were coming together for peace talks. If Sakura had her way, things would still be that way. But apparently, the Shadow Master that now ruled Konoha with an iron fist didn’t like that. He’d cut off trade routes in order to gain leverage in negotiations, lied about neighbouring countries during disputes, and undermined the internal politics of several other nations just to make a few extra ryō. And he treated his own ninja like kunai and bombs.

Danzo.

He liked to send on her missions where others had died failing to complete it. Her current, allegedly simple mission had gone awry when they’d realised that they were being watched. So here she was, hiding in the middle of a forest, with her chakra depleted, her wounds open and likely infected, while all she could think about was what a shithole this world had become for her.

Tsunade dead.

Ino dead.

Her teammates all dead.

So many dead.

The Konoha Eleven dwindled to a handful. The jounin and chunin leaf shinobi she knew and cared about, from all over the village, gone. Whatever ninja who couldn’t stand working for Danzo had been forced to flee not only Konoha, but the land of fire as well. In fear for their own safety. In the safeguard of their souls. They had disappeared so effectively. Who knew where any of them were. She had no-one.

The foreign shinobi now scenting the air for her blood weren’t the enemy. Danzo was. Root was. The Foundation. But she couldn’t do anything about that.

Not to mention this phantom that my exhausted, damaged mind seems to have conjured up.

It was still staring at her. She’d decided it was a mirage.

An abrupt sound nearby had her holding her breath. They were barely several feet away now, but thankfully heading in the opposite direction. They were leaving. (Was her blood really that dry? That weak?) They must be giving up though. She had to be dead by now. Her wound was gaping and could’ve hit a vital artery for all they knew. They didn’t know she was a medic. Her face covered in the Anbu mask that she’d taken on at Danzo’s order had hidden her identity. It was almost laughable and disrespectful how he’d forced her to wear such a thing. She wasn’t Anbu. But even more important to this Hokage was that nobody knew they were fighting the former Hokage's protégé.

What would they do then, I wonder?

Sakura had thought, many times, of disobeying and taking it off. Scrunching up her face and brow in consternation, she always took a moment to debate it before returning to Konoha. With Root all over the nations and spies everywhere, defying him was a death sentence and some twisted part of her still wanted to live. A part of her that should’ve died off long ago. It hadn’t done her any favours. But no. She would behave herself, providing that doing so kept her alive. An aching in her heart and head wouldn’t let her allow everything to just end. Not yet. She had to keep the ghosts that haunted her happy somehow. She almost laughed out loud at that ridiculous thought. The truth was so much worse than that.

The sound of her alleged enemy became distant, but it wasn’t until she could no longer sense them in any discernible way that Sakura finally let out a deep and noisy breath. She immediately relaxed her frame and winced at the pain as her muscles tormented her for it. Clenching her fist, Sakura’s hand involuntarily clasped the straps of the bag that sat next to her, under a few unruly and woody stems of the shrubbery around her. She’d almost forgotten about her travel bag. She picked it up and held it to her breast.

She blinked heavily, her body now shaking. She was alive. She was fine. Yes. Fine. Sakura took another deep breath and let herself cry. Just for a few minutes. She’d survived. Again. Her mind felt like it was going to break, but she was stronger than Danzo. She was better than he thought and even though he couldn’t kill her outright without looking like he was just killing off the old order, that day was still looming over her.

Sakura trembled as she forced herself up and onto shaky legs. It was a small victory, but she’d done it. Compared to the ones who hadn’t returned, what did she have to complain about?

She heard a loud scoff and spun around, suddenly remembering the phantom that had been staring at her. The image that looked like a torn and bloodied corpse of Sakura Haruno smirked at her before flickering then shimmering before disappearing completely.

What the fuck?

.:.

Blood trailed behind her, but she was beyond caring. Nobody was tracking her anyway and if some random team discovered it, it would just lead them back to the leaf – a fortress more than a village these days. They would either attempt to enter and get captured or leave before they were detected and killed. Captured or killed. Whichever was on the itinerary of the Root guards that day.

Sakura hesitated at the sight of the main gates to Konoha, blinking heavily. There was something in her eyes. The gates were painfully familiar but looked so different to the ones she used to take for granted in her early kunoichi days. She contemplated, yet again, just making a run for it. Surely Danzo would just assume she’d gotten herself killed this time. It did seem to be the purpose of these thinly veiled missions he’d assigned her lately. Apparently, her medical skills were no longer necessary, which boggled her mind. She was still as sharp and methodical with a chakra scalpel as she’d ever been. Originally, when the Hokage had taken over, she’d stayed in the village through her determination to do some good under his thumb. That and her friends and family were still in the village. She couldn’t just run out on them.

But things were different now. Most of the people she used to know before this regime were dead or M.I.A. She had nobody to stay for. Not really. Her parents were shells of their former selves so mourning her now would be just another day at the office. Everyone was expecting her to drop dead any day now, with the way Danzo had been handing out these kinds of missions to troublemakers.

And the people of Konoha were kept under a strict rule but they were safe. She clutched at her chest, ignoring the blood that had yet to dry on her shirt. She no longer held her Anbu mask as it had broken, alongside the bodies of the actual Anbu who’d accompanied her. There was no reason for her not to turn around and disappear into the foliage. Perhaps she could sell her services to someone who’d appreciate it. There were many who hated Fire now. She could dye her hair, change her name, and adopt a civilian lifestyle. Yes, she could go to one of the neutral territories where nobody knew her and spend her days healing the victims of Danzo’s senseless war.

A war nobody is officially recognising that he’s waging.

Everything hurt. Her arms. Her legs. Her heart. Her head. Especially her head. Sakura decided she definitely had a concussion.

But her feet began the familiar walk toward the gates, without waiting for her permission. Kotetsu and Izumo used to man the entry. Now the faceless Root did. They watched her silently as she strode through, trying to exude a strength and confidence that she just did not have. Sakura had no doubt that they were already contacting Danzo to tell him she’d survived. Too bad, she wouldn’t get to see the honest disappointment on his ugly, weathered face. Her eyes drifted up to the Hokage monument, but she didn’t slow her gait. Seeing them once again brought righteous anger to her heart. Though time and enough lashings for speaking out had taught her to keep these traitorous feelings to herself, nothing could truly quash them.

She stopped in front of the Hokage building, her feet no longer working against her will.

What did Ino used to say? Only ugly men want to rule the world?

Her hands started to shake so she gripped her travel bag tight enough to cut off circulation, wrapping her fingers over the strap like she was throttling Danzo and all his little minions. It was a nice thought. And if she did it, then the sweet bliss of nothingness would be her reward. Death at the hands of Root was not her intention. Nor was it something that scared her. No, she’d strangle Danzou then slit her own throat and be done with it. Go out killing a murderer and save herself the long, agonising, painful death that his loyalists would plan for her.

Bliss.

Sakura didn’t flinch as the door opened suddenly in front of her. A shinobi ten years her senior stared at her for a second and slowed down for a moment before leaving hurriedly. A flicker of recognition on his face before it quickly fell away had her heart racing for a moment. Then there was a look of pity, and finally his expression went blank. Like they weren’t comrades in a ninja village. Like they weren’t on the same side. He didn’t even hold the door open for her, just noting that she stood there like a dumb fuck who hadn’t clued onto the fact that they were a walking corpse and moved on. She had no idea who he even was.

The silence of her unimportance was deafening.

.:.

“What are you doing here?”

Sakura bowed ever so slightly, careful not to show too much respect. “I’m giving my report on the mission, Lord Hokage.”

Danzo glared at her. “And your team?”

Her left eye twitched. “Dead, sir.”

“Again.”

Fuck you.

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed. “I suppose it’s too much to ask the protégé of the useless Slug Princess to keep her team alive. Weak. Like her.”

Fuck you twice over and shove a hot poker up your arse.

Sakura twitched again. In the days following his take over, she would’ve destroyed this room for that remark. Or maybe just his desk. Now, she’d learned not to lash out. And she knew what it must’ve felt like for the children he stole and turned into Root, to be punished for having human emotions.

She picked at the dark uniform she wore. It was ripped and bloodied and dirty; gone were the days when Leaf ninja stood out from the darkness the shinobi once immerse themselves in. But she hadn’t learned to do it properly. She touched the side of her face, where a katana slice had destroyed her fake Anbu mask. Or maybe she had.

Why else do I keep surviving these suicide missions he sends me on?

“And the intel you were supposed to gather?”

Sakura rifled through her bag and found the scroll, tossing it to Danzo unceremoniously. If nothing else, the deaths of her comrades had afforded information that might save others. Whatever that information was. It wasn’t just her own blood on her uniform, after all.

“I suppose this will have to do.” He motioned for a Root Anbu who stepped out of the shadows, took the scroll and teleported away. “Now, for your next assignment.”

Already?

Why was she surprised? The only time she’d gotten to rest in the past six months had been in the moments on missions where she had to stay hidden. Sleeping in a tree trunk or passed out in the back of a civilian wagon when undercover. She still had the blonde wig from that mission that made her look like a prostitute. She’d long since lost her virginity so that mission hadn’t been as traumatic as Danzou had clearly been hoping it would be.

“You still cried like a baby.”

Sakura glanced around slightly to see where that had come from. It certainly hadn’t come from her. She was reminded of the strange mirage in the forest, but the only people in the room were Danzou, his protection, and Sakura herself. There were also his numerous books that lined his east facing shelf. Like “Transportation through the Decades” and “Ninja Seals and How to Undo them”. Sakura almost scoffed at that. She turned back to the Hokage, schooling her features. His gravelly voice broke through her thoughts, and she sighed. He was saying something. She forced herself to listen.

“I wonder what kind of mission could be so simple that even you won’t mess it up.”

Sakura had no idea. If she wasn’t meant to survive the last six months, then he could easily just have her killed outright. It would save him time if nothing else. She’d convinced herself that would be bad for him but would it really? There was something else going on with him. It wasn’t just a desire to see her crawl home or disappear in a hole. These missions had something in common. She could feel it in her bones. But she was given so few moments to herself that she didn’t have the time to try working it out.

So many of her comrades were dead. Mostly ninja loyal to Tsunade. But it also didn’t make sense to reduce their numbers. They’d fall behind all the other hidden villages and, if nothing else, Danzo could be trusted to not want to appear weak to the rest of the ninja nations.

What are you up to? She asked thoughtfully as he appraised her.

Her eyes widened slightly as his gaze slowly raked over her body.

Is it a seduction mission again?

She shuddered involuntarily, pushing down those disgusting memories. No. It couldn’t be. Everyone knew those were only being assigned to ninja he trusted, now. This decision had come after Tenten had accidentally killed her target when he tried to share her with “friends”. Sakura hadn’t seen her since, but she knew the weapon’s mistress was still alive. At least, that was what she kept telling herself. Even with how the civilians would whisper, Danzo could easily make any of them disappear. But Sakura wondered how people talked about the sudden disappearances of so many.

She couldn’t rule out the possibility that Danzo wanted her to sleep with some random idiot. She’d had Root assigned babysitters on those missions before. She shuddered again. Perverts the lot of them. The idea of having to go back to flirting with and fucking around with random strangers to get them into dark corners so she could get information off them made her want to vomit. It wasn’t her thing. It always made her feel dirty. And not the good kind of dirty. Sakura had the confidence to talk to men, but not the tolerance for the bullshit they spouted while trying to charm her. Nor the way they made her skin crawl.

Maybe it was because she no longer thought of anyone in particular when she touched herself.

Sakura blinked slowly. Then shifted her body slightly; her stomach clenched painfully. The almost-consequence of the last seduction mission made her glad when Danzo had stopped sending her on them. Sakura laughed at herself, internally, for that. She’d rather die than bring a child into this world.

Time’s a-ticking.

She’d rather die than get into a situation where Danzo could reign supreme over decisions pertaining to her body. More so than he already was, anyway. Sakura looked over as a masked Root member appeared suddenly and whispered in his master’s ear. Danzo looked surprised, tapping his desk impatiently. Sakura zoned out again. By the time she zoned back in, they were still talking in whispers, occasionally glancing at her like she was a monkey in a zoo. A badly behaved monkey that needed to be euthanized but in the least humane way possible.

She caught a few words, like “traitors” and “under the guise of” as well as “can’t be trusted”. It sounded like the same rhetoric he’d spouted to keep the residents of Konoha from a full-on revolt. Fear and subjugation in the hands of a man who operated in the shadows and knew nothing of the light he coveted. That light being the Hokage chair.

Danzo waved the aid away and stared down at Sakura, suddenly very interested in her. “Well, well,” he said. “It seems I have the perfect mission for you after all.”

She didn’t want to know what it was. The twisted look on his face made her wary. Her entire body tensed, like it was autonomously preparing for battle. Her instinct was to take a step back, but any sign of weakness would just make him draw this out even longer. She forced her face into a deadpan expression as he rested his chin on his clasped hands in front of him.

“I was going to use some random nobody, but you fit the bill nice enough.”

More insults on her worth.

“Something so straightforward you couldn’t screw it up.”

More assaults on her character.

“Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

More questions about her intelligence.

“But what else could you possibly be good for?”

She started fantasising about ripping his head away from the rest of his body. His spine would still be attached to the base of his skull and blood would be flying everywhere. She was a medic. But the image she was conjuring in her head was not remotely as disgusting as the worst thing she’d ever seen. Her face was impassive as he continued to talk down to her. She didn’t react to the way he degraded and verbally abused her. Not anymore.

Cut off all his limbs and break all his bones. Not to mention his withered dick.

Sakura dissociated for what felt like hours but couldn’t be any more than sixty seconds before blinking slowly, becoming aware of her surroundings again. What was he saying now? Nothing. Danzo was staring at her expectantly. Was it because he wanted her to rage at him or because he’d just asked a question? She raised her eyebrows at him instead, hoping he’d interpret that… in some way. However, he wanted to, she didn’t care, as long as it meant she could get out of here as soon as possible. She stunk like a horse’s arse.

“It doesn’t bother you?” He asked.

Damn it.

She missed what the mission was.

“If I may?” She asked and he didn’t respond, so she continued. “Can you please repeat that?”

He scoffed at her. “Hard of hearing, are you? Very well.”

Sakura almost forgot to breathe when he repeated himself.

What the actual fuck?

Of all the things she could’ve imagined Danzo would use to get her out of the way once and for all, this was not it. What happened to good old-fashioned torture? They could go back to that. Had he no self-respect? He waved the mission scroll about mockingly.

“Of course, if you’re not up to it, there are a few even grittier missions, such as your previous one, up for grabs. And since you keep crawling back here, you must like them. The next will be worse, I fear.”

Sakura bit her tongue to keep from snapping back at him. She had a temper. One that even before Danzo’s takeover, she had some semblance of control over. It was just specific people and circumstances that set her off. Naruto’s…

She clenched her fists tightly.

Don’t think about him.

She had enough problems. She ground her teeth together. “I am to spy for you?”

He scoffed and she realised that wasn’t her role. It would’ve been a natural side mission to the one he was forcing on her, and she reasoned that she was only being sent as a distraction. Or political leverage. He didn’t care if she succeeded or failed. Kunoichi were only a distraction, as far as he was concerned. Tools, just like any shinobi, but even more so. He’d brought it up often enough. This mission would make her eye candy at best and fodder at worst.

And if she tried to reject this mission…

“I’ll have no further use for you,” he said, and Sakura realised she’d asked the question out loud.

Which means… she’d be robbed of her kunoichi status and become a civilian. She clenched her fists and narrowed her eyes. She’d seen this happen before; other leaf ninja she’d cared about had chosen the civilian option and… disappeared shortly after. Nobody questioned the disappearance of a civilian. Even one that had fought, bled, killed, and almost died for the village many times. All their belongings still in their apartment. All their sealed jutsu and weapons suddenly missing. Six months of watching her march to her death only to return more broken and bleeding than before seemed to have lost its appeal. She was now to be tossed out like trash that nobody cared what happened to it.

I will not die that way.

They both knew she had no choice. But at least this way, she could get away from Danzo. Away from the constant suicide missions and blatant insults. Away from the stink of her life. Sooner or later, one of those suicide missions would hit their target and she would be freed. But… Sakura glanced to her right as something shimmered on the edge of her vision, but just out of sight. A familiar stranger who wore her face.

She could escape to someone who everyone knew held no love for the current Hokage.

Sakura took the scroll from her Hokage and nodded in mock respect. “I accept.”

The grin on his face made her stomach churn. She wanted to rant and scream. Her face twisted into a glare before she could stop herself, but she quickly schooled her features. Sakura waited impatiently as he laid down the unwritten rules to her. She waited impatiently to be freed from Danzo’s grasp, not glancing at the Root member who was apparently going to accompany her like a shadow under orders from a man who wanted to flay her alive.

Sakura gripped the mission scroll tightly. She was heading to Suna. She would have a Root babysitter, but this wasn’t going to be like her previous missions. This time, the enemy would not be some random foreign shinobi that Danzo had slighted and was out for leaf blood. No, this time she was going to make it through without getting the blood of her companions on her person.

But if I can get this Root babysitter killed I will.

Despite her initial reservations, she suddenly felt good about this. Though the niggling voice in the back of her head told her that he wasn’t going to be happy to see her. The dark voice that said she didn’t deserve to get away from Danzo. But she had a new mission now. One that should’ve given her more pause than this but didn’t.

I’m heading to Suna.

To marry Gaara.

.:.

[stargazeraldroth]

Fuck it, angst time. We ball.

AU where everyone in the Multiverse has turned against Ink and Dream for whatever reason (I believe you had a prompt on AO3 similar to this, where Dream became Shattered), and it’s gotta so bad that they’ve been trapped in the Doodlesphere… Which Error and Nightmare’s gang has managed to figure out how to destroy. And now, Ink and Dream are going down with it. Mind you, they aren’t evil here- At best, there was a horrific failure to communicate, and at worst, Error and Nightmare are liars.

I imagine there’s a bittersweetly fluffy death for the two where they’re cuddling as their last safe place crumbles to nothing around them- Potentially with last minute love confessions to each other, because I love Drink and think they should be able to kiss as they die together.

Cue the rest of the Multiverse realizing they fucked up with their two primary good Guardians gone, because the fabric of the Multiverse itself is starting to break apart. I imagine it’s all just a progression of bad to worse from there, potentially with the ghosts of Dream and Ink watching on.

Listen Anon, I might have to come back to this with some actual writing, but for now WE BALL!!!!

The news of their arrest/imprisonment spreads like wildfire, reaching the others in an instant. Some of them can't believe it, but depending on what led to the decision, some of them can. Many are in opposition to it, believing that nothing good can come from it. And right they will be, but not yet.

Dream's in hysterics, going over every word and exchange, trying to find where it all went wrong. Ink's doing what he can to comfort him but to no avail. It doesn't help that he can... feel it in him. The Doodlesphere slowly teetering toward destruction. And it hurts like hell, like thousands of sharp pins being inserted into his bones, but he deals with it. What else can he do in this situation?

They know they're going to die. There's no way they'll survive what the others have planned, and even if they do, will they still be... themselves? Or will they be deformed, hollow shells of who they used to be? The only comfort they have left is each other. And they hold each other close as the process is complete and they wither away into nothingness, as though they never existed at all. With them, they unknowingly take their authorities to their nonexistent graves, and the others won't be far behind them on their descent into the Void.

The effects are almost instant. Not a ripple, but a tsunami. A disaster of great scale that can't be escaped. It doesn't help that with the loss of positivity, how it's draining from every person in the Multiverse at an alarming rate, negativity is reaching its highest point in... well, ever. Fear, regret, anger... those who aren't spending their last moments cowering in fear or drowning in their sorrows and regrets are too busy screaming, fighting, and seething at their very core.

This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

[good-rwbyaus]

Destiny - [ Side Story : Ruby - Pt 1]

[ Part 1: Pyrrha ] [ Part 2: Jaune ] [ Epilogue: Oscar ]

// As usual, this AU haunts me like an evil spectre. So have some of the aftermath of Jaune ends up killing Cinder at Haven AU and the descent of Remnant's third goddess.

Note this was written pre-vol 8.

---

Disconnect:

Fighting Neo who had obtained the Summer Maiden's powers required her to pull out all the stops and more.

She drew the Maiden away from Vacuo while the rest of her team dealt with the hoard of Grimm that Salem attracted over.

And then she fought for her life.

Never had she needed to use her Semblance so many times and in such quick succession before. In hindsight, the brief moments of clarity she received when not being completely corporeal allowed her to see past Neo's lies without her knowing it.

The fight ended when she feigned going for Neo's decoy, only to shoot the real one through the leg and leaving her at her mercy. By that point, she was completely spent - hollow. As if not all of her came back after she used her Semblance so many times.

She had Crescent Rose pointed right at Neo's chest, her finger resting on the trigger.

All she needed to do was pull it. Put an end to the Summer Maiden on Salem's side - and Neo knew it too. But the woman showed no fear. Still defiant. Wasn't going to grovel for her life. She knew the price for losing coming in.

She would've been in the right if she chose to kill her.

...And yet there was a difference between killing someone in the heat of battle and killing someone that was no longer a threat. And as stupid as that thought was - a Maiden without aura is still dangerous, especially one dead set on killing her...

...she couldn't bring herself to take that next step.

She just stared straight into Neo's eyes - feeling the grief, the anger, the rage, the loneliness...

And just walked away.

Walked back in the direction towards Vacuo.

Hoping the choice she made wouldn't come back to bite her.

---

Her team naturally didn’t like her decision.

Uncle Qrow was particularly vocal about it, given that he didn't like the idea of a murderous Maiden nearly killing both his nieces.

But what's done is done.

They didn't like it, but they accepted it.

---

When she woke up the next day, she found a familiar bowler hat on top of her chest.

And the Relic of Destruction stabbed right next to her head.

---

Question:

"So what exactly is a god then?" Ruby asked, "I mean what makes them different from a Hunter with an overpowered semblance or even a Maiden?"

Oscar pondered the question before he grimaced and closed his eyes. It didn't take a genius to know he was conversing with Ozpin. Ozpin was still not particularly trusted, but their relationship was on the mend after that disastrous revelation involving the Relic of Knowledge.

"...A Maiden. A powerful Hunter. They're all still mortal in the end. Limited by Aura. Limited by the Physical. Limited by Death. A god no longer worries about any of those things, " Oscar said - except not quite. The boy's pose was straighter, though a slight gloom lingered on his face, "There is many a tale about the gods and about becoming one, but Remnant has only ever had two gods."

"The Gods of Darkness and Light, the Brothers Grimm," Ruby replied, "But it's not like they didn't come from nowhere, right? They created Remnant, but who created them?"

"Who knows? Maybe they existed from the very start," Oscar leaned back onto the chair he sat on, "Their powers transcend logic. Maybe their origins do too."

Oscar hummed a bit.

"But it is interesting though," Oscar continued, "in Remnant's history, all myths about creating a god always have three common points: Aspect, Worship, and Sacrifice."

Ruby mouthed the words silently - curiously.

"Aspect would be the god's specialty. Worship would be the faith directed towards them. And a Sacrifice to allow them to shed their body. The ingredients to create a god."

"Many sought godhood throughout history," Oscar lectured, "Committed atrocities against their fellow man for just the chance."

"All have failed except for one," Oscar sighed.

"And that one hasn't failed yet simply because she is immortal."

---

Return: 

Ruby quietly placed the last of the white knight pieces onto the shrine, glancing at the rest of her team and the remnants of Jaune’s team. 

It’s funny how life is sometimes. After traveling through Remnant in search of the relics, it was oddly fitting that all of them would return to the beginning, the Emerald Forest, when life was more simpler back then. More innocent times when the titles of Hunter and Huntress were synonymous with hero and not of responsibility and painful decisions. 

Normally, she wouldn’t think about such sentimental things - she’d always been the type to strike first and plan later - but time was all she had during the long flight from Vacuo to Vale. Just her and her thoughts.

Her hand gently pulled out the Black Bishop pieces from her satchel and placed them onto the checkerboard-shaped dais, the empty starting spots nearly filled. Ruby glanced over at Cardin and gave the matured Hunter a nod. Like the rest of them, he too changed after the Fall of Beacon, more empathetic to others and able to trust his life to those he once considered lesser than him. The fact those he hurt could trust him now spoke of his growth as a person. 

Perhaps it was a lesson that team CRDL could’ve only learned in Vacuo, the continent where if one could survive there, they were welcome there. Jaune probably would've been happy to know that his once tormentor matured into someone he could respect. 

She pulled out the Black Queen piece from her satchel. Her gaze turned to Emerald, the Fall Maiden, and Mercury who hovered close beside her like a bodyguard. The small knowing smile she made was something she couldn’t help - and something that the illusionist noticed, for she scowled and turned her head, pushing the boy away.

Ehehe. Even someone as dense as herself could tell Mercury’s feelings for Emerald, though what would come of it was a different story. Hopefully, their ending would be happy. They risked a lot to steal this piece from Salem’s clutches. It’s only right they’d have a good ending.

Ruby turned her away from the pair, drawing the last piece from her Satchel. The White King piece. Her gaze turned to Oscar who only nodded his head quietly, his presence filled with a wizened air. Hard to believe that this boy was, a year and a half ago, just a farmer - now he fought like the best of them, gave them advice like Professor Ozpin did.

With him and the rest - Weiss, Yang, Blake, Nora, and Ren....her best friends, her family, the ones she could leave her back to - she could find the courage to walk towards the future.  

Was it Destiny that allowed them to return here?  

The ground she stood on glowed with a brilliant light. 

----

A darkness surrounded her, speckled with orbs of light.

She was alone.

“Welcome. I have been waiting a long time for you," said a voice directly ahead of her. A familiar young-sounding voice.

“...Who are you?”

“I am the instant where Will becomes Action. I am the progenitor of both Regret and Satisfaction. You know who I am."

“The Relic of Choice. Do you have a name?”

“Choice does not exist without the Will, just as I cannot exist without you. My name is yours.”

“Ruby?”

The darkness and light in the room seemed to meld into one shadowed figure, a silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the Shrine. It was her - back when she was fourteen and begging Ozpin to enter Beacon - maybe even a little younger than that. The only difference was a shining crown on her head - the Relic of Choice.

“Correct. Why have you come?”

“I wish to obtain the Relic of Choice, reunite the four relics, and defeat Salem once and for all.”

“That’s possible. But first...” her figure said hesitantly, “May I hold her?” Her hands pointed towards Crescent Rose. The question shocked her for a moment; Crescent Rose was her most trusted companion, something more than just a weapon to her. She instinctively wanted to say no.

But the look in the Relic's eyes...they were familiar. Like a kindred spirit.

With a bit of reluctance, she held the top of Crescent Rose's folded form and allowed the Relic to grab onto the grip.

The relic smiled as she hugged and nuzzled her weapon with her cheek. A moment later, she sighed before giggling, “Thank you. Though I am not you, I still feel your sentiments. For us, Crescent Rose is like...”

“An old friend,” she understood. Not the whole having a weird clone thing, but she couldn’t really be wary of someone who clearly loved Crescent Rose so much.

“I can allow you to have the Relic of Choice, the heart of the Relics,” the relic said, “It can lead you to victory, but you should know the consequence of using it.”

���I know. I asked Jinn of what I can do to defeat Salem. I know the cost of the relics’ power is my life,” Ruby quietly said, “I’m willing to do it.”

“You shouldn’t sacrifice your life so readily," the Relic said sadly.

"But I will respect it," continued the Relic, "I sense the day that the future will be decided.”

“You can defeat Salem at the price of your life but everyone around you will die. Or you can save everyone at the cost of your life but you will no longer be able to kill Salem with the Relics.”

What?

“I...”

“You don’t have to make a decision now. I just wanted to inform you of the choice you will need to make,” the shadowed figure said as she flickered and appeared in front of her. Taking off the crown from her head, the child that looked like a younger her placed it upon her head. 

It was heavier than it looked, shining with a white glow.

“You look good with it,” she said with a sad smile, “Now go. All that’s left for you is the Staff of Creation.”

She felt the world turned dark around her, the young girl in front of her was slowly moving further and further away as if she were being repulsed.

“Wait! What about you!?” she screamed. 

The young girl smiled, “Do not worry about me. I’ve been waiting here for a long time. Now I’ll finally get to rest.”

“Come with me!” she yelled out.

“Sorry, Ruby Rose.”

She reached out to the younger girl's fading form.

“But if I may give some advice...”

“I hope you’ll allow yourself to follow your heart this time around.”

“Goodbye.”

----

“Ruby, are you okay?’

“Huh?” Ruby managed to exclaim as she shook her head. She was back at the Abandoned Shrine, surrounded by worried faces both new and old. 

“Are we missing something? No, all the pieces are here.”

“Hey, Oscar. Was something supposed to happen?”

Several teams started whispering in confusion.

“...I have it,” Ruby interrupted the growing commotion and closing her eyes.

The Relic of Choice appeared over her head, its heavy weight settling down onto her.

Her gaze slowly glanced in the direction of Atlas, feeling the pulse of the final piece needed for the Relics to be complete. 

[lunarifie]

The Hollow - SuperHero School AU Power Discovery Backstories

SuperHero school au explanation post

Reeve:

- Reeve’s parents died when he was 3 on a Super-Hero mission.

- Once his grandmother took him in, she tried everything to get Reeve to discover his powers. She did this in grief, hoping that Reeve would have his parents powers and the that she’d be able to hold on to a small part of them.

- Because of this, Reeve’s incredibly complicated power was discovered incredibly early.

- At first, Reeve felt pressure, believing he had to live up to all the tremendous stories his grandmother told him about his parents.

- Eventually, his grandmother reassured him that he didn’t have to live up to those expectations. Reeve gladly decided not to care, growing into his own person outside of his powers.

Mira:

- Mira was adopted when she was 5. When her fathers discovered she had powers, It was assumed by them and by the school district that it was genetics.

- This was proven to be false when Mira decided to go back to a lake she’s had fuzzy memories of when she was a child.

- Mira discovers she was in fact slashed by an eerie unidentified creature, one that had somehow found its way out of the ocean and into the lake.

- For some reason, she cannot talk to this creature, but memories flood back and she remembers falling into that exact lake when she was 4, safely returning back to shore with only a small injury and two new powers.

Adam:

- Both of Adam’s parents were Normie’s, so it was a surprise when their son suddenly came home with the strength of a body builder and the agility of a gymnast.

- Turns out, the martial arts/self defense dojo they sent their son to (to stop the bullying) had an instructor who’d been impressed with Adam’s determination and drive.

- The old instructor was a retired Super-Hero. He no longer had a need for his power, a power that’d been passed down for generations. So, he decided to become a self-defense instructor in search of an inheritor.

- Adam was found worthy and was bestowed the power (unknowingly). Adam was given a note by the instructor, explaining everything, but when Adam went to confront him, the instructor was no longer at the dojo.

Vanessa:

- Vanessa’s parents divorced when she was 6. Her mother had floatation powers and her father was a Normie. Vanessa mostly lived with her mother, increasing the desire to have powers instead of being boring and normal like her father.

- One day, on vacation with her parents, she stood a bit too close to the ledge of a bridge. Vanessa bends down to tie her shoes, only to trip and fall off. Both of her parents are too busy arguing to notice her descent.

- That is until she flies. The crowd of tourists clap for her, bringing over her parents attention.

Skeet:

- As a kid, Skeet was a wanderer, constantly giving his single father heart attacks. One day, his father (a nurse) brings Skeet to the hospital to visit, and as always, Skeet wanders.

- Skeet stumbles upon an empty hospital room with a comatose patient. This super-powered patient has specific chemicals being pumped into them due to their super-power requirements.

- Skeet sees the plastic bag of chemicals dripping onto the floor, and being a curious 6 year old, dips his finger in the chemical puddle and licks it.

- His speed powers come in a year later with no explanation. Skeets father rushes him to the hospital and they explain that Skeet swallowed a substance that had a 90% chance of killing him. As shown, Skeet had luckily survived.

Kai:

- Both of Kai’s parents come from a long lineage of super-powered individuals that double in powers. Due to this, his parents have a sense of self-superiority.

- As time passes, Kai feels an immeasurable amount of pressure to have super-powers, especially when he showed no signs of them at the age of 6.

- His parents sent him to every doctor they knew. All they could say was that Kai was a late bloomer (since his parents left no room for discussion of their son possibly being a Normie).

- When he was 13 years old and still showed no sign of powers, his parents gave up on him and abandoned him in Davis’s care. They only visited every few months, enrolling him into The Hollow high-school for super-powered individuals, as a last ditch effort.

- Eventually, at the school, Kai’s powers are discovered. Yet they are still not up to his parents standards, since he only has one power, and its unknown how he received them.

[serenescribe]

for the new ask game!! hope you're having a fun day!

1/ my favorite fic of yours:

i want to say all of them but thats not how this works TvT so ill limit myself: anything you wrote for the selkie au (beloved selkie son <33), hollow moon (im still haunted whenever i see the moon outside), everything goes dark (i dont even know anything about feh?? but i fell in love with the setting and extreme dubious morality) and the silver sleeps for 100 years after mal's ob fic (utter hell; broke my heart and tore it to shreds. i will shatter like glass if i attempt to re-read it i think)

6/ something i remember vividly from reading one of your fics:

the flashbacks from 'everything goes dark' come back to haunt me every now and then. i vividly recall the growing dread i felt reading through them and the gut churning horror of reading those final ones; terribly fucked up lilia my beloved 🫶

7/ what made me the most emotional after reading:

two for nero got a visceral reaction out of me the first time i read it but what actually made me most emotional was the absolute descent into madness that hollow moon was. the build up of silver's condition and the way i kept going 'there's no way it can get worse' only to get proven wrong a few paragraphs later had my inside tied in knots and tears dripping down my face before i even got to the end ;;; ALSO that fic where lilias "i love you's" aren't enough to wake silver up anymore tore me apart. i still think about it a lot

12/ a fic of yours that ive re-read:

so many!! i re-read two for nero twice, i go back to the selkie fics a lot, also re-read the silver sickfic, the diasomnia cuddle pile anddd that's all ive got off the top of my head o/

Fanfic asks - for the askers

micaaaa my beloved!! i love our selkie au dearly and i still want to write more for it when i am not crushed under the weight of old english and essays :'D excellent picks for fav fics!! i'm glad to see some appreciation for everything goes dark bc i'm still very fond of that; i went a lot more descriptive than i usually do and i'm still quite happy with it!

again, i am so SO glad that hollow moon fucked people up. mission goddamn accomplished!! the way everyone was probably just like "it can't get worse" only for me to sledgehammer them with the next paragraph. truly a train wreck in the slowest possible speed. it really does get worse before it gets better. (and aaaa god that fic ;;; tore at my own heart while i was writing it)

happy to know that you reread some of my stuff <3 thank you for sending this in!! :D

[corydon8]

THE HOLLOW MEN

Mistah Kurtz-he dead

            A penny for the Old Guy

                        I

    We are the hollow men

    We are the stuffed men

    Leaning together

    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

    Our dried voices, when

    We whisper together

    Are quiet and meaningless

    As wind in dry grass

    Or rats' feet over broken glass

    In our dry cellar

   

    Shape without form, shade without colour,

    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

   

    Those who have crossed

    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

    Remember us-if at all-not as lost

    Violent souls, but only

    As the hollow men

    The stuffed men.

   

                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

    In death's dream kingdom

    These do not appear:

    There, the eyes are

    Sunlight on a broken column

    There, is a tree swinging

    And voices are

    In the wind's singing

    More distant and more solemn

    Than a fading star.

   

    Let me be no nearer

    In death's dream kingdom

    Let me also wear

    Such deliberate disguises

    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves

    In a field

    Behaving as the wind behaves

    No nearer-

   

    Not that final meeting

    In the twilight kingdom

   

                    III

    This is the dead land

    This is cactus land

    Here the stone images

    Are raised, here they receive

    The supplication of a dead man's hand

    Under the twinkle of a fading star.

   

    Is it like this

    In death's other kingdom

    Waking alone

    At the hour when we are

    Trembling with tenderness

    Lips that would kiss

    Form prayers to broken stone.

   

                      IV

    The eyes are not here

    There are no eyes here

    In this valley of dying stars

    In this hollow valley

    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

   

    In this last of meeting places

    We grope together

    And avoid speech

    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

   

    Sightless, unless

    The eyes reappear

    As the perpetual star

    Multifoliate rose

    Of death's twilight kingdom

    The hope only

    Of empty men.

   

                            V

    Here we go round the prickly pear

    Prickly pear prickly pear

    Here we go round the prickly pear

    At five o'clock in the morning.

   

    Between the idea

    And the reality

    Between the motion

    And the act

    Falls the Shadow

                                    For Thine is the Kingdom

   

    Between the conception

    And the creation

    Between the emotion

    And the response

    Falls the Shadow

                                    Life is very long

   

    Between the desire

    And the spasm

    Between the potency

    And the existence

    Between the essence

    And the descent

    Falls the Shadow

                                    For Thine is the Kingdom

   

    For Thine is

    Life is

    For Thine is the

   

    This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    Not with a bang but a whimper.

LES HOMMES CREUX

Un penny pour le vieux guy

I

Nous sommes les hommes creux

Les hommes empaillés

Cherchant appui ensemble

La caboche pleine de bourre. Hélas !

Nos voix desséchées, quand

Nous chuchotons ensemble

Sont sourdes, sont inanes

Comme le souffle du vent parmi le chaume sec

Comme le trottis des rats sur les tessons brisés

Dans notre cave sèche.

Silhouette sans forme, ombre décolorée,

Geste sans mouvement, force paralysée ;

Ceux qui s’en furent

Le regard droit, vers l’autre royaume de la mort

Gardent mémoire de nous – s’ils en gardent – non pas

Comme de violentes âmes perdues, mais seulement

Comme d’hommes creux

D’hommes empaillés.

II

Les yeux que je n’ose pas rencontrer dans les rêves

Au royaume de rêve de la mort

Eux, n’apparaissent pas:

Là, les yeux sont

Du soleil sur un fût de colonne brisé

Là, un arbre se balance

Et les voix sont

Dans le vent qui chante

Plus lointaines, plus solennelles

Qu’une étoile pâlissante.

Que je ne sois pas plus proche

Au royaume de rêve de la mort

Qu’encore je porte

Pareils francs déguisements: robe de rat,

Peau de corbeau, bâtons en croix

Dans un champ

Me comportant selon le vent

Pas plus proche –

Pas cette rencontre finale

Au royaume crépusculaire.

III

C’est ici la terre morte

Une terre à cactus

Ici les images de pierre

Sont dressées, ici elles reçoivent

La supplication d’une main de mort

Sous le clignotement d’une étoile pâlissante.

Est-ce ainsi

Dans l’autre royaume de la mort:

Veillant seuls

A l’heure où nous sommes

Tremblants de tendresse

Les lèvres qui voudraient baiser

Esquissent des prières à la pierre brisée.

IV

Les yeux ne sont pas ici

Il n’y a pas d’yeux ici

Dans cette vallée d’étoiles mourantes

Dans cette vallée creuse

Cette mâchoire brisée de nos royaumes perdus

En cet ultime lieu de rencontre

Nous tâtonnons ensemble

Evitant de parler

Rassemblés là sur cette plage du fleuve enflé

Sans regard, à moins que

Les yeux ne reparaissent

Telle l’étoile perpétuelle

La rose aux maints pétales

Du royaume crépusculaire de la mort

Le seul espoir

D’hommes vides.

V

Tournons autour du fi-guier

De Barbarie, de Barbarie

Tournons autour du fi-guier

Avant qu’le jour se soit levé.

Entre l’idée

Et la réalité

Entre le mouvement

Et l’acte

Tombe l’Ombre

Car Tien est le Royaume

Entre la conception

Et la création

Entre l’émotion

Et la réponse

Tombe l’Ombre

La vie est très longue

Entre le désir

Et le spasme

Entre la puissance

Et l’existence

Entre l’essence

Et la descente

Tombe l’Ombre

Car Tien est le Royaume

Car Tien est

La vie est

Car Tien est

C’est ainsi que finit le monde

C’est ainsi que finit le monde

C’est ainsi que finit le monde

Pas sur un Boum, sur un murmure.

Le titre, the Hollow Men, fait écho à Jules César où Brutus emploie cette expression à propos de Cassius, qui commence à le décevoir.

L epigraphe "Messa Kurtz-lui mort" est une phrase d Au Cœur des Ténèbres de Conrad, qu on aura avantage à relire en fonction de ce difficile poème.

"Un penny pour le vieux guy"est la revendication traditionnelle des gamins anglais qui, le 5 novembre, anniversaire du complot des Poudres de 1605, promènent des effigies en paille de Guy Fawkes avant de les brûler en place publique.

On sait que Guy Fawkes fut arrêté dans les caves du Parlement, le jour de l Ouverture, à l instant où il allait mettre le feu à un barril de poudre.

Cette epigraphe n est d ailleurs pas la seule allusion du poème (cf "cave sèche","âmes violentes",etc) à un complot qui, mutatis mutandis, sonnait sans doute aussi "creux" dans l esprit de l auteur que celui dont César fut victime.

Les vers 11-12 présentent le difficile "shape without form", littéralement "formé sans forme" ce qui ne se comprend guère si l on n ajoute que le premier "forme" (shape) a le sens concret de forme corporelle, et que le second (form) renvoie à la terminologie scolastique, selon laquelle l âme est la forme du corps.

D où notre à peu près :"silhouette sans forme ".

Le royaume de rêve de la mort vers 20 30 l autre royaume de rêve de la mort vers 14 16 et le royaume crépusculaire de la mort semblent correspondre respectivement dans la Divine Comedie à l Enfer au Paradis et au Purgatoire cf tout particulièrement la rencontre avec Béatrice.

En V tournons autour du fi-guier et C est ainsi que finit le monde se chantent sur l air de Héréditaire we go aronde thé mulberry bush -

A la quatrième strophe, puissance potence doit naturellement être pris au sens de virtualité

Enfin car tiens est le Royaume est le début de la doxologie qui suit maintes prières, notamment le Pater, dans la liturgie anglicane "For Thine is thé Kingdom and the power and the glory for ever and ever, amen"

Commentaires et traductions de Pierre Leyris