#because she has lost her twin and she is hollow. and her cold is hollowing saccharina out because she was so happy to see her sister and was

[innorogers]

Dawn

Steve Rogers x OFC

Summary: No, this pain…It was carved into him, ingrained into his very being, haunted him like a shadow. And no one saw it.

Warning: Angst

Characters: OC, Steve Rogers, John Walker, and Avengers.

Also: This is the almost last chapter of the series! Thanks in advance for repost or any feedback ❤️ Let me know if you want to be included in the taglist (DM, comment, repost and tag, whatever works)❤️

1: Insomnia | 2: Lucid | 3: Reverie | 4: Nightmare | 5: Awakening | 6: Dusk | 7: Hypnagogia | 8: Lull | 9: Vigil | 10: Eclipse | 11: Veil | 12: Labyrinth

There it was… this tree.

A giant, opulent, beautifully majestic oak.

You knew every branch, every root. You knew how the sunlight glistened through at dawn, golden beams cascading like falling rain through the shifting shadows of its leaves.

You knew how it breathed among the fog, whispering in an ancient language only time could understand.

You knew how it slept beneath the moonlight, how it awoke in spring, how its roots stretched so deep into the earth that – when you were underground in that hideous lab, strapped to the surgical table with things plugged into you – you could see it.

Golden threads of its life. Shining. Glowing. Bright as starlight, intertwined like an infinite spider web, nested in the ceiling, moving, circulating, breathing. Living.

When those Hydra white coats numbed you with electrifying pain, this magnificent view of these ancient roots was your tether to sanity. They curled into your mind, winding through the agony, singing a symphony only you could hear and understand.

And after whatever they had done to you and your siblings, you would go there. You could see through the layers, so its branches were like an open stairway for you to climb with ease. Your brothers and sisters never understood how you did it, how you ascended higher and higher until you were lost within the greenery of its leaves.

“Twelve!” They used to shout out to you—usually, it was Four or Seven who followed you to play deep in the forest. “What do you see?”

And each time, your answer was different.

“A bridge crossing the mountains… there’s, um… a red train with smoke! It’s so shiny! And it’s heading east… I wonder what’s in the east?”

“Oh, look! It’s that train again. It turned on the lights! Whoa, it looks so warm inside, and cozy too… They have yellow lights, that’s so nice…”

“Birds! I can see birds! Wow, they are so white, they look like flying little clouds… They are flying together… Now, how does the first one know there are so many others following? They are not leaving anyone behind… I wish we could do that too someday.”

“The village under the mountain has its lights lit! I think there’s a celebration. They have lights in red, green… violet? Is that the right color? I’ve never seen violet lights before… How do they do that?”

You would shout that to your siblings, and then they would tell the rest when you were together, sometimes during the rare occasion of having dinner, or after the guards went off their shift, in your separate cells where you could hear each other.

They would press you for more details, wide-eyed and eager, clutching onto glimpses of a world beyond their own. And they asked the rarest, weirdest, and most fantastic questions that turned a cold winter night into a conversation full of laughter and imaginary dreams.

Everyone would participate, except for Eleven, your twin.

She could read your mind, she never needed it to ask.

So she sat beside you at dinner, silent as she passed the bread and salt. Or curled against the wall of her cell, in the exact place you were on the other side, the corners of her mouth turning into the faintest of smiles.

Because she knew.

There was nothing.

Only miles and miles of barren mountains, infinite snow, jagged rocks, and trees stripped by the wind. The scenery was gray, deep green, and white.

Cold.

Unyielding.

Vast.

And hollow.

No bridges to the east, no trains with warm cozy lights, and no colorful lantern-lit villages.

Only a wilderness so vast and empty that the silence itself had weight.

And still, Eleven never said a word.

But sometimes, just sometimes, when she handed you the bread, her fingers would linger for half a second too long as if she wanted to say something. And you could hear her heartbeat, or see her life thread shining in the dark on the other side of your cell wall. It was shining more than usual when you told those stories.

But she never said anything.

And neither did you.

Or your siblings that went outside and saw the world.

They all knew. Just as you knew.

There was nothing outside.

Not for you.

Not for them.

But the tree still stood, after all.

And so did the stories.

So here you were, again. How many years has it been? You looked around. You were on a tall branch, a few feet from the ground. The air was cold, and the ground was lightly dusted with snow. Is it… winter?

You frown. Confused. You are in your usual position, these branches were so strong and wide, that you used to nap here in spring. But now… you couldn’t fit into it.

How… how long has it been since you were last here? Hours? Days? Years?

You looked around, and then you heard the voices.

Someone’s talking.

“It’s gonna work.” A female voice said, in a soft, gentle, but unwavering tone.

“How…?”A male voice responded. “We’re failing. My wounds aren’t healing. I’m not even close to passing the tests. Not like before. And Three… Three isn’t progressing either. She’s too slow. She’s—”

He faltered. “She was supposed to be better than us. And yet, when we were her age, we were so much stronger, faster…” His voice is desperate: “And I don’t even want her to be that, but they won’t let her live…if she continues like this.”

You peered through the leaves, your breath catching in your throat.

You could barely remember them, it had been so long, but yes, of course, you see it now. You look so much like them, but yeah, they were so gorgeous. Look at One. Oh my god, she looks like a Greek goddess.

“It’s going to work.” One murmurs: “This project, our mission, our purpose, it’s going to work.” She says softly but with the certainty of someone who had seen beyond time itself.

Two scoffs, crossing his arms. “Well fine, GREAT, that’s what they want. So what…what do you see? Do they just find some miracle cure? Some magic serum? Or do we just keep surviving their tortures because we’re so perfect?”

“No.” One shakes her head. “Not in the way they think. Not in the way we think.” Her fingers brushed the bark of the tree. 

“The experiment succeeds because of something else. Someone else.”

“What? Who?” Two raises his eyebrows. “‘Jesus’?”

One doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head slightly like she’s listening to something beyond the wind, beyond the forest. A future too distant to touch, yet already written.

Finally, she whispers, “Someone will survive. One of us. Eventually. And they’ll be the last. The last, but the most important. The only one that matters.”

She smiles faintly, as if she were seeing something beautiful, something never seen before, some dream so far away but yet so stunning that she doesn’t even have the words to describe it.

“Someone strong, warm, kind, gentle, who will carry this cross. Someone that looks like…redemption and…mercy.”

“So…” Two nods sarcastically: “Jesus.”

One chuckled, brushing a fallen leaf from his hair. “No…well, probably. You know, the one who will end the fight and bring the peace we never saw. And we will never see.” 

Two stiffens. He doesn’t need to ask what that means. He leans on the tree looking up, and narrows his eyes as some sunlight pinches through the leaves, casting directly into his eyes. 

“How long do we have?” He asks softly, he pauses. “Wait, since when you’ve known this? Since when you’ve seen it? Did you know? We would start to fail? We would…eventually…die?”

“I think I’ve always known… but we were always…brainwashed and…put into sleep so I just thought it was a dream, but now, when Three was created and she started to fail…it just became more and more clear.” 

One sits on the ground, and she leans back and looks up at the tree above them too. And for a moment, you thought she saw you, but she didn’t. She looked at the sky, some blank space between the trees and beyond, but that was the only sky she’d seen. Or remembered.

“We are meant to fail. Two.” She looked at her partner.

“We are meant to fail and die. So eventually, one of us will make it. We are the trials, the suffering, the experiments, the test results, we are the stepping stones to something greater. Something that’s…worthy.”

“Wait…” Two looked at her as he listened. He knew her so well, as their souls were written with the same ink and pen. 

“Is this why Three is failing? She carries yours, no, she carries our DNA, is this why she is letting go? Because…she is accepting it? As we are accepting it? Because…you accepted it. So we all did. And so…all that comes after us, all our siblings, eventually…will too.” 

You pressed a hand over your mouth as you sat frozen in the tree, disbelief sinking into your bones.

So this was it.

This was the reason.

This was why all your siblings had died before you. Even those who survived to the experiments.

They were never meant to survive.

They were only meant to pave the way.

And they knew. Just as they knew you were inventing stories but never said a word, never shattered the fragile illusion that you weren’t trapped, caged—that your existence wasn’t just a highly sophisticated experiment, a perfected kind of lab mouse.

They accepted One’s vision, imprinted in her soul since she had witnessed it, and it was passed down to Two, to Three, to Four, to all of you. And so, one by one, they let go.

So the final prototype, the perfect and ultimate version of you could…

No.

Your eyes widened. 

Something pulled at the edges of your consciousness. A thought, a truth—one so absolute, you knew it. You knew it all this time but it was so deeply woven and buried into history that you didn’t grasp it at the beginning. 

It was like One said: The experiment had worked. Just not in the way Hydra intended.

“Not in the way they think. Not in the way we think.”

It had succeeded.

Not in them.

And not in you.

But in someone else.

The final outcome. 

The one who carried it all. 

Not just the experiments, not just the test, or the science, but the very heart of what One had seen. 

Strength, warmth, kindness, mercy.

Your breath hitched.

It was never you.

It was him.

It had always been him.

Steve.

All of you, you were never meant to be the final answer. You were the foundation. The formula. The failed trials. The pain, the suffering, the endless experiments—all of it, all of you, existed so that, one day, the right person would receive the right answers. 

Not the strongest. Not the fastest. Not the most enhanced.

But the one who didn’t need it to be great, not at those things, at least. A good man. A good heart. A soul so bright, so just, that his life thread was shining like concentrated sunshine.

Because Steve Rogers had been Steve Rogers long before he ever took the serum.

And that was what made him different.

That was what made him the success.

That was what made him worthy.

You felt the cold sting against your cheeks and wiped at the tears, but they kept falling. 

You could see it now. All of it. Every unspoken answer to the questions that had haunted you, every muted sacrifice, every quiet acceptance. 

One had seen it back then, and she embraced it. 

She had let go, and so had your siblings, the refined, enhanced echoes of her. And now, so would you.

Right?

So would you.

The tree opened.

Its golden life threads glowed like the first light of dawn, unraveling and twisting like infinite veins of pure light. They pulsed, beckoning, calling you home.

And in the distance, you saw them: your siblings. Standing together beneath the branches, waiting.

Four and Seven, side by side, just as they always were. Eleven with that quiet smile, she was carrying Eight, the one who passed so early, too young to remember the pain, too innocent to understand what she had been made for.

They were waiting.

White birds pure as cotton, moving like little clouds. They don’t leave anyone behind. They took flight. No one was going to be alone.

And for a moment, you wanted to go.

But. 

“No…” You muttered.

Someone was being left behind.

You could see it. 

You could see him.

His back was hunched, his hands gripping the edges of a sink, white-knuckled. His reflection in the mirror hollow, exhausted, tired. Dark circles under his eyes. He had been up all night, again.

You saw him sitting at a desk, untouched food growing cold beside him. His shoulders tensed as he forced himself to keep reading report after report, even as his vision blurred.

You saw him in the gym, fists slamming into the punching bag, again and again and again, sweat dripping from his skin. The bag snapped off its chain. He grabbed another. Kept going. Never stopping.

You saw him staring at his hands. The scars were healing by itself. But did the pain go way too? Just because it was cured fast, does it mean that it didn't hurt?

You saw his sleepless nights, wandering around the compound, just checking what he could do better, faster, so the seconds and the minutes passed quicker and it was another day, more challenges, more missions, more hurt, more scars. More.

You saw.

Pain.

Not the battle wounds or broken ribs, bleeding fists or a bullet on his shoulder or another scar on his back.

No, this pain…It was carved into him, ingrained into his very being, haunted him like a shadow. And no one saw it.

Because he was Captain America.

And Captain America didn’t falter.

Captain America didn’t get to fall apart.

Captain America didn’t get to suffer.

But Steve—

Steve did.

Steve was suffering.

“No.” You said again.

You promised.

You promised you would come back to him.

You promised to fetch every star so your soldier could sleep, that you would go to the furthest sky and come back.

You promised. 

And yet, the tree was pulling you in. The light wrapped around your wrists, your ankles, your chest. 

“No.” 

Your siblings were walking to the light, and so were you. 

You were meant to go with them. You were designed to let go.

It was in your very DNA.

Does promises weight more than nature? Than fate?

“BP is plummeting—40 over 20!” The quinjet’s med bay was a storm of flashing lights and frantic movement. Biometric monitors lining the walls flickered with erratic data streams, pulse oximeters screaming alarms. 

“I need 2 milligrams of epinephrine, NOW!! Move! Charge the paddles to 200!”

Someone shoved an IV line deeper into your arm, saline, blood expanders, anything to stabilize your failing system. The ventilator hissed, forcing oxygen into your lungs, your ribs barely rising under the straps securing you to the gurney.

“Come on, come on, stabilize…Push! Another dose!” The doctor that was rescuing you, fighting against Death, was frenetic: “Come on Dr. Lancaster…Come on!”

“Dammit, I need a crash cart ready now!” He was screaming to the nurses as the other medic was already prepping the defibrillator, hands steady despite the terror in his eyes.

“Push another round of epinephrine, now! We need to get her back …” His orders went above the sounds of quinjet’s machinery, above the blinding lights or the deafening wail of machines. 

“She’s fading!”

“Heart rate dropping—she’s crashing—get me the stabilizer, NOW!”

Steve wanted to say something, his lips moved. But he could barely make a sound, he was just there, John’s arms were around him, holding him down as the medics worked. 

The walls of the quinjet blurred, distant, irrelevant, the machine’s beeping slowed. The medics worked and the nurses run, but Steve didn’t see them. He saw you. Pale. Still. Slipping.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

No.

NO.

He thinks he made some sound. But it was so strange the voice that came out from his throat, it was pure agony, a desperate, animalistic sound.

“Please…” He heard himself saying.

“FIGHT!” His voice cracked, splintered, shattering against the walls of the jet. “You hear me?! Stay with me!”

“Come back to me.” His voice broke. “You promised, you PROMISED.”

But you weren’t moving.

“DAMN IT, PLEASE!” His voice ripped from his throat, raw, shaking, pleading. He was begging. He didn’t care. He’d fall to his knees if it meant getting you back. “DON’T DO THIS. DON’T GO. FIGHT.”

But then, the ECG monitor displayed jagged, chaotic spikes before—

Flatline.

Steve froze. 

And his entire world just broke down to nothingness. 

You looked up, and your fingers faltered. 

The strings of the tree’s life thread were so strong, pulling you so hard that they took away your strength. 

You could see it: Your own life thread was being absorbed by the tree. 

You think you are screaming, kicking, and fighting, but your siblings just keep walking. Your sounds were muted, echoed into silence and absorbed by the wind.

Please, no. 

You inhaled deeply. 

You need to go back, you don’t… you can’t leave him. You promised you’d never leave him, he was not alone anymore.

Please…

Your fingers trembled as you reached for something, anything.

You weren’t going to give up, not like this, not here, not without giving the fight of your life.

He is waiting, so you have to go back. You have to go back because he will be hurt, and you won’t let anything hurt him. Not anymore.

“No…” You clenched your teeth as you struggled with all your strength. But you were loosing, because this is engraved in you, it is written in your DNA, your soul, and your existence. You are destined to let go, just like your siblings did. 

No. You tried. Harder. And harder. And you prayed and begged. You called for his name. You were trying to hold on, to all the wonderful things you had when you were finally free, to friendship, to love, to life. 

Please. You could hear his voice, or was it yours?

Tears in your eyes, and you could hear how his heart was breaking, how his soul was crashing, so you fought, but the threads were so strong, and the tree was taking you further and further away.

Suddenly, Something caught you.

A hand. 

Rough, firm, unwavering. 

Grasped your wrist and pulled.

You gasped, head snapping up, and for a moment, this world of light and glow blurred.

And then you saw him.

Your breath caught.

Your eyes met his. And for some reason, it all made perfect sense.

You would have expected Steve to be here with you, and when you finally saw him, you just knew.

Of course.

Of course, he’s here to save you.

Of course, he has been here all along.

You didn’t really meet him. You never had.

Yet somehow, it felt like you had known him all this time.

And you had been waiting to meet him, right now, in this moment.

Bucky.

“I knew there was a reason why I was coming to this damn tree every time I was put to sleep…” Bucky chuckled once you were standing safe and sound before him.

“I knew it! Damn, and I was wondering, like, where the hell have I seen this tree before?” He smiled at you, not the Winter Soldiers’ smile, you could see it so clearly: this is James. The James that Steve knew.

“Well, it makes sense now…” He shrugged, chuckling to see you still in wtf mode. “So what are you…like asleep? Or are you like…dying? What are you doing in this…limbo?” 

“I…” You came back from your shock, and you wiped your tears and sniffed a little: “I think I was dying…WAIT! where…where are my siblings?!” You turned around, looking for them, but nothing you’d seen was there anymore. 

The tree is still in this quiet, silent forest on an orange and golden afternoon. 

“It hasn’t been no one around for a while…” Bucky shrugged: “I think I’ve seen some birds just flying by, but um…sometimes I see Steve passing around, walking and wandering, but he is always gone fast…which makes sense, I mean, the guy is always recovering in the blink of an eye, so…he doesn’t stay long.”

“So um…” You were still confused: “You…you were here? Always?”

Bucky exhaled and smiled to you.

 

“So, yeah. I’ve been here before. A lot, actually.” 

He glanced around, eyes scanning the golden threads shimmering in the tree’s endless embrace. “At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me. A side effect of you know…used. Being put under, frozen, wiped, rebooted, whatever shitty thing they did to me.” 

His metal fingers flexed slightly, glinting in the soft glow of the light around you both. “But now… now I kinda get it.”

You swallowed, you knew, but you asked anyway: “Get what?”

Bucky’s gaze met yours, steady, knowing. “This place… it’s not just in your head, or mine. It’s something else. An anchor, a tether, maybe even a crossroads. And I kept ending up here because—” He hesitated, then chuckled under his breath.

“You know, there’s something we share in our DNA. But also I think it’s because I was waiting.”

Your heart clenched.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, glancing away as if embarrassed by his own realization. “I didn’t know what for, not until now.”

His voice softened, quieter than before, but there was no hesitation in it. “Maybe… I was waiting for this to happen.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

“I was waiting for you.”

He turned back to you, his eyes more serious than you’d ever seen them. “And so is he.”

Something twisted in your chest.

Bucky exhaled sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching up in the faintest hint of a smirk. The James kind of smirk. 

“So, you should go back.”

A sharp, suffocating stillness swallowed the Quinjet whole, everyone was in a deadly silence that filled the cabin, as the flatline in the monitor was progressively moving with a deaf sound, stretching on, as an endless, hollow wail, louder than any explosion, more deafening than any battle. 

No one spoke. No one moved. The nurses and the agents looked away, unable to meet the sight of Captain America, kneeling on the floor, eyes unfocused, soulless. 

John’s grip loosened, and he felt a lump in his throat. The only thing he could do was to put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. His lips moved, but there was no sound. 

There was nothing left to say.

No one could provide any words of consolation.

And then. 

You gasped. 

A sharp, sudden inhale, like you had been drowning and just breached the surface. It was like a horror movie slash miracle. You breathed. And you sat. 

A unified, staggered gasp filled the cabin. Eyes widened. 

And then—

A single, steady beep.

The monitor flickered, its display shifting. A heartbeat. Your heartbeat.

Steve was still frozen, still staring at you, his face unreadable. 

Until you turned around, disorientated, and met his gaze.

It took just a look, for his eyes to see the light in yours, again. And his body finally allows him to feel the devastation he was holding back.

And just like that, his tears finally fell.

TBC

HASDHAHUSDAISHASDIUDAHISUADSIUHAU Aaaaaaah! 🔥

I'm back! I'm so sorry I haven't post in a while. Oh god this chapter got me so emotional writing it, and it was just like 😭

So, from the beginning of the story, I knew that Bucky was surely sleeping, but I just KNEW he had a key part to play; the original plot, though, was REALLY DARK. And Bucky and John and Sharon, are the ones that actually save Twelve. (It was too much of an angst and I couldn't write it cause I was so down in my depression 🥺, but someday...) But still, here, I wanted him to be there. I knew he would be there.

So one more last chapter to go, and I'll be continue with the Burning Sun Series and probably some one shots 💖

Thank you so much for being with me all alone, and I'm sorry again for taking so long to complete this.

I'll see you in the big finale 💓

Love., Moon.࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Tag list: @vioplay19 / @jamneuromain / @steviebbboi / @heletsmelovehim / @otterlycanadian / hisredheadedgoddess28

[m0chisenpai]

Why Does My Heart Cry

The Sandman 

Desire of the Endless x Dream!Reader

Word count : 1,148

Buckle up I was in an angsty mood and listening to Moulin Rouge on repeat for the past two weeks. But don't worry you all know I won't leave you all to wallow.

“Why does she cry?” Dream asked his librarian. The two watched on as the young dream above in the clouds. No longer were they golden and beautiful painted in the most gorgeous of colors. They were dark, murky. Rain fell from them gently covering the entire Dreaming in a sleepy storm.

Lucienne could only shake her head looking at her Lord. “She has been like this for some time. Dreams of love seem to be disappearing with each passing night, the day dreams of mortals followed suit as of late as well.”

Dream shook his head. A part of him wanted to blame his younger sibling for tainting you. You were not meant for lust. You were meant to provide the humans with the sky, with love, but lately those who daydreamed found nothing. Dreams of the young slowly followed suit. The thoughts of the young so creative and filled with playful dreams

Desire taught you lust, but love? It felt like a lost memory, something familiar within you that you observed daily. In the dreaming you observed from above the lovers and their dreams. Dreams of babies held to a mothers bosom, first loves, lovers lost. It all filled your heart and tore it apart. Because it was then you realized you loved your dearest Desire.  

This sad realization seemed to bring on heavier rain as you let out soft sniffles and whimpers that rippled across the sky into dull rolls of thunder, hiding yourself in your clouds. They seemed to mimic the gentle embrace of your once lover.

“Little dream,” Dream crooned from down below. You slowly sat up from your cloud willing it to float down and keep you at eye level with your Lord. “Why do you weep dear one?” His hand reached to cup your dull skin lifting to look into your eyes, what once shined like stained glass panes turned into two empty pools of ink.

You shook your head looking at your lap, your hands playing with the clouds wisps. Your voice soft and broken inquired, “why does my chest hurt Lord Dream?”

“Humans call it a broken heart.” His thumb caught a lost tear.

Thunder softly rumbled across the Dreaming. “Is there a cure? Can you not take this broken thing out of me? Fix me please, I don't like this feeling. It hurts.”

And Dreams heart broke then and there at the empty eyes that looked upon him. You were so broken, he could feel your pain, see it in the skies. “I have not the heart to uncreate you, dear one, but I may know of another solution, if you will trust me?”

He lifted his hands to cup your face gently with both hands beneath your jaws, closing your eyes you welcomed the warmth that spread down your neck, up it to to the temples of your head.

And so Dream pressed a gentle kiss upon her crown and peace filled her as she turned into a pile of sand, the only thing to remain was a small mass of clouds encased in an iridescent globe. "You will know peace finally, my dear Iris. Rest now."

It seemed as though the storms of the Dreaming bled into the Threshold. The bright golden clouds completely dark and ash grey. The body of the Endless void of any color and the heart that once beat with life, was still.

Despair thrived off that empty feeling. She was exactly that, that wrenching feeling in your chest, the hollowness that eats away at your very being. Despair was so loud and also yet so silent. And while she loved to fester and feed off the pain, in this moment she wished her twin was anything but in utter despair. 

The Threshold once flush with life, beating so loudly so boldly seemed to curl in itself. The heart of it beating faintly and dimly. It was cold, and a dark maroon on the inside. So quiet you would think Death herself walked through and sucked the very life of the Endless. And in the center lies Desire in the arms of Despair.

Despair heard from humans that there were five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then finally acceptance. She'd seen it through those whose lives you bleed into.

Desire was in between what she assumed to be depression and acceptance. 

After being denied their love a fury unlike anything she had seen burned inside them, when empty threats failed to sway the Lord of Dream they began offering anything to their elder sibling who turned his back on the young endless. Dream sealed the realm off from allowing Desire to enter and thats when the depression settled. 

For days they begged, screamed at their brother's sigil. And slowly that burning diminished. They held onto the robes of their lover, curled in their chamber which had any human stepped foot in, surely would freeze to death.  When Despair saw the still state of their sibling she could only hold her sibling and offer what little comfort she had to offer.

“My sweet twin” Desires voice pierced the cold silence “will this ever end?” 

Despair could only offer a sad smile cupping their pristine face. Desire could only lie their head turning once more to the side, sunken eyes closing. 

In the sigil room Dream reached out to the heart smoothing his fingers over the heart. “I hold your sigil in my hands. Desire, let me through.”

Desire huffed burrowing themselves more into their twin's embrace. “Come to torment me more brother?” Dream never saw the Threshold in such a destitute state. And Desire never once was seen without that large smile. 

And as he gazed upon his younger sibling for a moment, remorse could be seen before the cold endlesses eyes. “No, I come because the mortals suffer. There are no desires and with no desires dreams fall after” and as he slowly spoke he walked to his sibling. Sitting beside their limp form. A hesitant hand settled on their back which tensed up but soon relaxed. 

“Despair please” Dream whispered. The twin nodded and returned to their own realm leaving the two together. Dream took her spot atop the bed continuing to gently stroke his siblings back.

“And so I come to return something.” Desire's eyes opened watching as their brothers clasped hands open. A globe in his palms with a small cloud inside that seemed to turn light pink once revealed. 

“Sweet dream you may return to your love, but when I call you are to fulfill your duties to me, and the mortals.” The cloud glimmered a brighter pink, the globe warming beneath his palms.  “She is a fragile thing, but resilient Desire, but resilient. If you hurt or break her I will see to it you never lay eyes upon her again.”

Dream lay the globe on the bed standing and turned sharply to leave.

“Dream” the endless look back to their sibling clutching the bulb close to their chest. And though Desire did not say it, Dream smiled softly. “You are welcome, dear sibling.” 

Once gone Desire pressed you to their chest and closed their eyes. They thought of every moment spent in your arms, how you felt in their own arms. The feeling of your floating locks in their fingers. And the globe shattered in their hands, the cloud slowly taking shape, your shape. And Desire leaned in to press a kiss completing your recreation.

Once alive you were pulled into the yearning arms of your lover. And you grasped back just as needy letting out your own whimpers and cries as you grasped at your lovers. Your eyes pressed shut trying to put an end to even more golden tears falling from those iridescent eyes.

"My Desire, promise me it is you."

“Oh my sweet one” Desire finally pulled back holding your face in both hands. Their fingers wiped away the golden trails down your face, pressing you closer if it were possible. Curled together atop the silk red bed.

“I love you. Loved you the moment I saw you on those clouds in my brother's realm. You are in every rainbow surrounding my realm. I have desired many things, but none can compare to you. I believe you to be the only creature to have brought desire and make myself feel so.” Your breath hitched as you foreheads pressed together, your breaths and heart mending together t create one beautiful harmony. “I was ready to give Dream everything he desired, my realm, a new love, multiple loves. Anything just to feel you in my arms, in my realm again.” And as they spoke the Threshold lightened up slowly and your eyes brightened. 

“Oh my love….” you leaned forward pressing your lips together. Their hands sliding to rest on your waist digging in to press you as close as possible. And just outside did the Threshold beat alive and bright again, and in the Dreaming from Morphesus’ castle he and his librarian watched as the looming clouds rain ended. The thunder came to a stop and bright golden beams broke through the dark clouds.

"Sunny days are upon us my lord."

And Morpheus smiled stroking the spine of the book in his grasp, "Indeed Lucienne."

[akampana]

I would like to test your imagination, Akampana.

In your chaldaea, you have Arturia with all her harem.

- What would happen if Arturia were to disappear to save the Master?

- What would happen if Arturia Alter was summoned soon after?

To me, Arturia Alter is a form of protection for Arturia the original. If she appears, it is because Arturia is no longer able to fulfill the role she has given herself. She can no longer live for her ideal. Her light went out shortly after she disappeared. Alter is just there to make sure that Arturia's legacy doesn't disappear, that no one hurts her, to prevent anyone from tarnishing that ideal and it doesn't matter if she has to go against that ideal. She is the opposite and all who look at her see the beauty of the light that has been lost, just to remind them that the sacrifice of Aturia was a terrible loss.

To me, Alter loves Arturia and seeks to protect her from those who try to harm her. If they were face to face, they would disagree with each other...but Alter would keep a low profile and make sure no one tries to hurt her. Like a twin sister whose character is simply opposite.

In FSN, Alter was forced to appear because of corruption, but this should never have happened. So she obeyed the orders she was given, already because she had to, but in the end, because she wanted to protect Sakura because she felt the young woman's distress and since Arturia could no longer assume her role, she tried to replace her.

I personalize Alter's intentions a lot, but by doing so, Alter is a meaningful character for me and not just a king who has lost his ideals.

If Arturia were to disappear, Alter would answer the call of the summons to replace her, just until Arturia returns. When the king returns, then everyone will appreciate the beauty of her light and Alter will fade away so as not to tarnish it. She will not disappear, not as long as the Master needs her, but she will make sure to fade away and wait for the time when she is no longer needed.

-Fate Inspiration

(I must admit I love Arturia Alter, so forgive me for this personalized question.)

(@fate-inspiration in that case, I hope you'll forgive me too, for such a personalized answer hahahaha!)

Featuring the Harem, Ritsuka, and Saber Alter

4.6k~ words. hurt/comfort, angst

___

“What the hell do you mean, ‘she’s gone’?” the mad king grunted, eyes hollow and voice as low as thunder.

Ritsuka whimpered like she’d been shot through the chest, tears welling up in her large yellow eyes. Their strong master folded in on herself, the girl’s chattering knees no longer able to hold herself up.

But it was not fear that made humanity’s savior sink to the floor. It was not fear that made her grip onto Diarmuid for support as he caught her. It was not fear that made her cry into Cú’s shoulder when he knelt to her level.

It was grief.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘she’s gone’?” Alter echoed, because he was the only one able.

No words came to the lips of the outspoken pharaoh, who stared blankly into space as his back hit the cold wall and he slumped to the floor. He’d forgotten he was a god-king, a ruler meant to be above all else, for now he sat on the level of dogs, and he felt no disgust.

No words came to the handsome French knight, whose sword clattered to the ground beside him as his armored knees clanged against the floor. He lurched forward, bracing himself on his hands like an animal as tears began to well in his eyes.

No words escaped his loyal comrade, who choked on his grief as saltwater streamed down his face freely. He said nothing, only stood there with the pain in his heart weighing down his shoulders.

No words came to the Nameless one, who turned and left without any destination in mind. Anywhere but here, he wanted to be. Anywhere but here.

And no words came to Gilgamesh, who stood in quiet agony, his tongue burning with the need to laugh, to cry, to rage into the stormy gray nothingness outside. Every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire, smoldering for her touch, blazing to feel the locks of her hair as it slipped through his fingers, and above all, aching because he knew that was no longer possible.

Twice, it was a Holy Grail War that brought them just close enough to touch before forcing them apart. Then, by fate, she was once again in his life, this time long enough for him to love her, to cherish her, but only just. When he left, humanity saved, her kiss was the last he felt. It was supposed to be a bittersweet goodbye. A memory for him to cherish as Gilgamesh returned to drift in the Throne.

He shouldn’t have been summoned again.

“In—In Chaldea,” Ritsuka sputtered through hot tears as Mash joined the two Irish knights in their embrace. “In Chaldea, she…she tried to help Da Vinci and I escape, but���but—”

Then Cú Alter too was brought to his knees, his tail shaking in agitation as he begged their Master to continue. Diarmuid couldn’t say anything to calm him, and neither could his blue-haired other self, for both were just as distressed, barely able to keep their wits about them as they awaited Master’s explanation.

“He got her. He got her card, he—” Ritsuka cut off, digging in her skirt pocket before shakily pulling out what was left of the proof of Arturia’s Spirit Origin. It was nothing but a ripped, rumpled pathetic scrap, the only evidence it had ever belonged to her being the shade of blue engraved into its surface.

The mad dog scooped up what was left of the card and unfolded it carefully. It didn’t even come up to half. None of them could see her face, the section cleanly sliced off with a blade.

Someone else left the room. The rest didn’t even know who. They couldn't be bothered to focus on anything but the Spirit Origin of their Arturia lying in tatters, together with every memory she made with them in Chaldea. It was all gone. All gone.

“Who?” Diarmuid asked, his tone deceptively calm. If any of them bothered to look, they would have seen his sclera darken as his glamour fell. They would have seen his tears run black and his teeth grow sharp in rage. “Who got her?” the knight asked, revenge gripping his thrice broken heart.

Ritsuka wailed into Mash’s shoulder, hiding her shame in her teary-eyed Shielder, no longer able to continue. His hands now empty, the Child of Light met Diarmuid’s eyes, mirroring the rage within them with a bloodlust of his own. Master had to give them an answer, else their anger would find another place to let itself out.

Mash answered in her Master’s stead, holding Ritsuka steady as she rubbed circles into the ginger’s back.

“It was a priest, he called himself…Arturia…Arturia called him Kirei. K-Koto—”

Red locked with red. For once, the Lancer and the Archer’s thoughts aligned, and both were thoughts of blood.

“Kotomine Kirei,” they said simultaneously, the syllables spat out like they were filth; filth that deserved to be churned into pieces and incinerated with hellfire till not even ash remained.

Cú could already see it, the mocking face of the one who killed his first ever Master, the one who forced him into service. He could see that damn priest and that damn grin and that damn bloody aura laughing at him like a crazed hyena, taunting him; reminding him that he was nothing but a tool meant to follow orders. He remembered that despicable room beneath the church, those poor orphans. He could see Kirei’s dark silhouette, laughing as this time there was nothing Cú could have done to spare Saber because he wasn’t there, not this time.

Sirens began to blare as the room charged with mana, but both Master and Mash knew there was nothing that could be done. So they could only watch, as the blue beast charged, up off the ground and straight into the one other Servant in the room who knew that sadistic priest.

“You said he was dead!” screamed the spearman, baring his fangs like a feral hound as he tackled the blonde king to the ground. One of his hands was at Gilgamesh’s throat, nails digging painfully into the skin by his jugular. His other was a fist. And every second, his knuckles came back bloodier, every second, the king saw red and more red, but Gilgamesh didn’t stop him. Gilgamesh didn’t do anything at all.

“You both went to Fuyuki to check, you both checked the fucking records, I know you fucking did—”

Something, someone ripped the blue beast off of the king, groaning as Cú elbowed his way out of the hold and back to gripping Gilgamesh’s collar. They slammed against the wall, each ruby-eyed Servant with equally crossed eyebrows and snarling lips.

Suddenly, both the remaining Knights of the Round Table were faced with the same truth that had been haunting them ever since they reunited with Arturia in Chaldea: she had lived short lives without them that had fundamentally changed her, when she joined the Grail Wars. Suddenly, the long history they’d spent serving King Arthur felt insignificant compared to the short weeks she lived as a Servant. Suddenly, they felt like strangers, neither recognizing the name Kotomine Kirei, nor knowing his significance.

And Cú Alter, who’d never known Arturia in any past life or past War, despaired silently, like a flower wilting in the dark. Because this priest, this monster, had stolen away the person who’d made his twisted heart beat and Alter didn’t even know who he was.

“Enough, Cú!” Diarmuid yelled, looping his arms under his fellow Lancer’s shoulders before yanking him off the blonde. But even as he tackled the man to the floor to subdue him, the Irishman understood he only knew half the situation. Kotomine Kirei was naught but a piece of data to him. A representative of the Church, according to Kayneth’s records. Arturia…neither Arturia nor Gilgamesh or even Cú had discussed at length the man’s role in the Fifth Holy Grail War. None of them ever saw the need to…because he was supposed to be dead.

A stray elbow collided with Diarmuid’s nose, finally collapsing the glamour that had kept him looking human. Then, it was a Fae fisting Cú’s hair and forcing him onto the floor, sharp fingernails ripping into the latter’s scalp like little knives.

“Calm yourself, damn it!” the fae yelled, voice distorted, gravelly, and somewhere deep in the uncanny valley. “This will accomplish nothing, you know this, Child of Light, we ought to—”

“—Ought to what?” seethed Lancelot, his thumb rubbing the hilt of Arondight as he contemplated shoving it in his chest. The sword couldn’t possibly break his heart, when so many times already it had been cut to pieces. But maybe it could help with the pain. After a lifetime of regretting never telling Arturia how he really felt, after years of fighting by her side in Chaldea to earn her trust, and later…her love, it had all come to naught. She was gone, her Card lying in tatters in between that devilish Cú Alter’s claws.

“What is it we ought to do, Diarmuid?” the knight spat, his voice darkening as his armor faded to black. The sound of Arturia’s laughter began to echo in the chambers of the poor Frenchman’s mind. Shrill but melodic. Ugly but beautiful. A comfort and an annoyance. A contradiction. He was losing himself, he knew it. He’d been mad before. Several times. He’d gone years without wit, waking up with a clarity only to find months had passed while he was trapped in his own thoughts. But now, he could feel those same thoughts ensnaring him once again, wrapping around his chest as gently as Arturia would caress him.

“Hope? Pray?” Lancelot huffed, the wrinkles between his brows deepening as he began to growl. “I did that til the day I met my death and no matter how much I begged, groveled on the ground like a starving, suffering slave that never brought her back! I—”

"Lance!" Bedivere seethed, his face wet with tears as he grabbed his comrade's wrist. In the background, Ritsuka continued to wail, exhausted and grief-stricken by the double loss of Da Vinci and the King of Knights, but Bedivere could only hope Mash's comfort was enough for the moment.

"Pull yourself together!" the knight urged, though he himself was falling apart at the seams, "Do you believe our king would want this…this discord between us all? We should be relieved our Master didn't come to harm. Our king made a noble sacrifice."

Bedivere wanted to believe his own words, but he knew his expression said differently. Even if he'd delivered that sentence with conviction, he was aching. Lancelot was aching. Even Gilgamesh, even Cú bloody Alter, both he'd never understand, were aching.

As he looked around the room at his defeated Master, his desperate friend, the tattooed blue beast kneeling on the floor, the blue beast pinned under a catatonic fae, the hollow-eyed, arrogant king, and the two that couldn't bear being in the room, it finally sank in.

Arturia had been their keystone. The one thing holding them together. She was the reason he and Lance could stand each other. The reason Cu and Nameless only bickered, never fought. The reason Ozymandias no longer existed in loneliness. The reason Alter resented his existence less. The reason Gilgamesh, of all people, became more than just a tyrannical arse.

Without her, they were strangers. Maybe even enemies.

"Summon her," Gilgamesh suddenly ordered, his imperative tone escaping through his bloody split lip.

"W-what?" Sniffled the distraught Ritsuka as Berserker spun to face the Archer, hope coloring his dark ruby eyes.

"Summon her, Fujimaru Ritsuka," Gilgamesh repeated, approaching his Master with a hastened step. "Arturia loved you. She was loyal to you. Ask, and she will answer your call."

Ritsuka's tears became waterfalls. "B-But she…her records…her card—"

"Summon her," Gilgamesh urged, desperation lacing his imperative tone. Several pairs of eyes were now on the Master, each in a different state of distress. "Every catalyst at your disposal is already present."

Galahad's shield. The sword hidden in Bedivere's arm. Her First knight. Her rival in the Fourth Holy Grail War. Her enemy in the Fifth, and the one who chose to protect her. The remains of her Spirit Origin, held in her newest love's claws. And of course, Ritsuka Fujimaru herself, who made Arturia believe her story had not yet come to a close.

Mash's shield was on the ground the moment Ritsuka held out her hand. Because Gilgamesh was right. Everyone Arturia ever loved was here.

"Heed my words, Arturia Pendragon, King of Knights," she shouted, blue light sparkling off the shield and illuminating the hope going around the room. Magic surged throughout the small metal quarters, filling every servant's veins with adrenaline as the blue orbs began to spin.

No words left the Servants' lips but it was as if they could hear each other's hopes, their desperation, their need to be reunited with the one person who could make them feel whole. All eyes were on Mash's shield, praying for the light to shine on silver sabatons, wishing for the vibrant blue of her battle dress to come forth.

"My will creates your body. Excalibur creates my destiny," screamed Ritsuka, voice hoarse as she altered her summoning chant. Arturia had to come back. She had to. "If you heed the Grail's call and obey my will and reason, then answer my summoning!"

Gold dust. Gilgamesh had never thought the color could look lovelier. Metal boots. Bedivere could still remember how they clanged on the stone floors of the castle, how his heart would beat in anticipation for her arrival, just like it was doing now. A midnight dress. Lancelot gave a quivering smile. He’d always said she’d be beautiful in black. He did. He…he did.

Ritsuka’s grin wavered as she sighed. That was a familiar chin. A familiar face. She’d done it right? Arturia had come. Right?

Diarmuid didn’t have an answer for his Master. He stumbled forward, forgetting his glamour, because he knew that face, that soft chin, even if there was no blush coloring her cheeks.

Free from the former’s grip, Cú sat up, scrambling towards her. He didn’t care that her sword was black. He didn’t care that she didn’t even turn his way.

His Berserker self still kneeled, red eyes holding onto hope as he clutched Arturia’s ripped up class card in his hands. But it wasn’t royal blue that filled his vision. It was the same midnight black as his tail, the same red that stained his chest and face. The hay-colored strands of hair he so loved to run his claws through, they were different. As if…altered.

Gilgamesh reached her first, caressing her cheek in his palm as he always did. Because it was the King of Knights, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be anyone else. He couldn’t mistake her face. Her skin. Her ey—

“Arturia?” he voiced, speaking before his thoughts could catch up.

But it was not evergreen irises bursting with life that met his fiery stare. All he saw was drought and wilt, as if a meadow had gone far too long without rain. They stared at him hauntingly, emptily because there was nothing behind those eyes that would bring warmth to her gaze.

“Arturia” shoved him off coldly, rejecting his touch and pointing her darkened Excalibur at Diarmuid before he could attempt to step any closer.

“What is this?” the newly summoned Servant demanded, unaware of the despair she caused in them all as she searched the summoning room. “You do not appear to be my Master. Do not presume you have the right to use my real name without my title, nor do you have the right to place your hands upon me.”

And though it was Gilgamesh whom she had shoved away, although it was Gilgamesh that felt the cold sting of her armored backhand upon his wrist, it was Diarmuid that dropped to the floor once more. This Arturia…her eyes had met his for no longer than a split second, then they were gone. She had no reason to hold his gaze.

“Hey,” the blue Lancer attempted, grabbing her wrist as she moved away and missing. “Shortie, wait—”

Cú was given the same fate: a glare and nothing more.

Finally, her gaze landed on Ritsuka, the Command Spells on her hand seemingly more important than the silently grieving men around her. “You are the one they call a Master? I have come by your bidding. Artoria Pendragon Alter, Saber Class. You understand the fate that awaits you, and until then, you may command me.”

Alter.

That’s when the tattooed, forcefully changed version of Cú finally realized it. Just as he was not the same person who stood crying hot tears as he begged shortie, shortie, shortie, it was not their Arturia that stood before them.

It was someone else.

The tailed man crumpled into himself, clutching the remains of Arturia’s—his Arturia’s—card to his chest. Cú Alter had thought nothing could ever hurt more than the curses upon his body, the blatant, burning rejection Gae Bolg had for this hated form. He was numb to any and every sword that pierced his flesh in the heat of battle. But this? He felt like he was being eaten alive, consumed by hellfire that burned souls and not skin. Because there was no pain that existed in this world greater than loss. And no ache greater—he thought as Artoria Alter spared him a split-second glance—than a reminder of that loss.

He should have never let himself feel.

“Arturia,” Ritsuka said, ignoring her end of the contract in favor of gripping the woman’s arm. “It’s me, Ritsuka, do…do you remember? Look everyone’s here for you, we’ve got—we’ve got Bedi and Lance, here too. And E-Emiya, he was here earlier with Ozy. Do you remember them?”

The Master gestured to the two knights, who stood with mouth agape as they stuttered forward. She hadn’t reacted, hadn’t even blinked to any of their names. Artoria looked behind the short ginger girl, her gaze first landing on Shielder, then the traitor, then the fool.

“So you summoned them as well, Ritsuka,” she said, her voice like ice, warmth completely absent from her yellow eyes. “I underestimated you, Master. If nothing else, those that used to be of the Round Table are skillful swordsmen. An appropriate addition to the roster you displayed here.”

Roster? Did she think Ritsuka had them all assembled to show off?

“My king—”

“Arturia,” Ritsuka interrupted before Bedivere could start sobbing, “Do you remember?”

Saber Alter grew impatient with her new Masters questions, the odd conduct of the Servants that surrounded her, and most of all, the pathetic expression upon that blonde Servant that dared touch her face. She knew what it was, she’d seen it on Guinevere whenever her queen had looked at Lancelot. Alter had no bloody idea why it was there, when she’d never even met these Heroic Spirits before.

Suddenly, the lizard-like monstrosity she noticed earlier stood up to leave, a bitter expression upon his face, but not before Saber Alter got a glimpse of the rumpled card piece he held onto so tightly. Particularly, the unmistakable shade of blue across it. “Her” favorite color.

Ah, now she understood.

Alter could have picked anyone to confirm her suspicions, but she found her eyes traveling back, barely landing on her former knights and the Irish heroes. All of them looked at her with a longing. Not for herself, but for someone she believed was an entirely person, a noble fool who suffered under the weight of her dreams and her people’s expectations.

Alter answered her new Master just as the imposing Mesopotamian’s ruby eyes began searching hers, and she did the same to his. There it was again, that sickening, soft expression that flooded the eyes of those afflicted with affection. It was undeniable now. Alter had erred in assuming these heroes were all gathered such that Ritsuka could make a good show of her army.

Every single one of these Servants was here because they loved Arturia Pendragon.

“Whatever it is that you speak of, I do not,” she muttered, breaking the King of Heroes’ gaze along with his heart. “For I am not her.”

For the second time in all history, Gilgamesh’s knees hit the floor.

…

Later, when Ritsuka had managed to pull herself together enough for a welcome, Saber Alter sat down with her new Master at the cafeteria. Her eyes rested on the corner table, which, though occupied by her knights, the Irish Lancers and a white-haired Archer, seemed terribly empty, like there was a person meant to fill the space next to the red-clad one. Neither the golden one nor the gloomy lizard made another appearance.

Such devastation. Artoria Alter wasn’t aware her other self could hold this much power over so many Spirits of great renown. She could have used this kind of loyalty and support in Camelot.

“I’m really sorry about earlier, Alter. We shoved our expectations onto you without warning,” Ritsuka apologized, placing some junk food in front of the new recruit. Alter could tell the Master still struggled to look at her face without tearing up, but she respected the strength the ginger displayed.

“Banish the thought, I have already forgotten it. There is no use in dwelling on the past,” the Servant said dismissively. “It seems, however, that my presence will disturb your ranks much more than you anticipated.”

Ritsuka nodded, offering her a solemn smile.

“Arturia saved me, but now…”

She looked around the room, a crease between her eyebrows appearing as EMIYA met her gaze then looked away.

Ozy appeared by the door for a brief minute, but only to give himself enough time to accept the tiny king was gone. Then he left, grievously, muttering that he should never have tried to find another happiness when he’d already found that in life. A worried Nitocris trailed behind, knowing the pharaoh was heading to his pyramid. Ozymandias was going back to his habits in his initial months in Chaldea, which was to spend his hours reminiscing about the past, alone.

“Now, I’m scared she left a hole so deep I can’t possibly fill it in. No matter how much I try,” the Master continued, sighing into her crossed hands. “I just wish the guys wouldn’t blame themselves.”

“And why would they? That seems quite witless on their part. To fall in battle protecting you should have been an honorable end for Saber. I have no doubt she thought of it as such.”

Ritsuka winced at her bluntness, but even the blue Arturia had a tendency to come off a little harsher than she meant to. She knew instinctively Alter meant her no harm. It was just a simple inquiry.

“The reason Arturia was still with me then, when we were all terminating the Servant contracts was because, well…” the Master said quietly, “they didn’t want to be without her. So, she said she’d go after everyone else, so she could see them off.”

Artoria tried not to cringe. It seemed her other self must have changed quite a bit, if she was accepting such strong feelings from these different spirits. Then again, it was difficult to deny that once, a little girl had dreamt—in passing— of finding a prince. A prince, however, not several.

“You know Gil, the-uh, the one with the red eyes and the blonde hair? He was the last of them to see her,” Ritsuka mumbled, twiddling a piece of the blue Arturia’s card between her fingers. “I think that’s why he reacted so rashly when you came.”

“I see,” Alter replied, roughly ripping open one of the many chip bags that sat between her and her contractor. She liked this…potato chip. There weren’t such delicacies in her original time, when it wasn’t uncommon to go hungry during harsh winters.

Ritsuka looked like she wanted to keep the conversation going, but after all the emotional turmoil she’d gone through, the poor girl did not seem to have the words.

“Master.”

“Hm?” the girl hummed, not taking her worried eyes off the far table. There were a couple of snacks before the group, all of them untouched because they were Arturia’s favorites. EMIYA must have been cooking while he was away, distracting himself from his thoughts with his hobby. A hobby that made him extremely compatible with Arturia because of her appetite.

Now, however, there was no one that dared partake.

Cú was leaning onto EMIYA, twiddling with a french fry. It was unclear who was comforting who, but just the fact that Archer let the blue beast remain there was an obvious sign of distress. Even Lancelot and Diarmuid sat facing each other without argument, when they pissed each other off so often. Bedivere was still crying.

“The hole that she left…you are sure you cannot fill it?” Alter asked. There was a rather angry expression on her face, but Ritsuka could tell it wasn’t for her.

“...Yes?” the Master answered truthfully, although the question was quite odd. “I don’t think anyone else can fill that space, honestly. They changed her in many ways, and she changed them. I think they all figured out some way to fit together, and now that she’s gone, it’s…well I guess it’s kinda like a puzzle with one piece missing. Her piece.”

Saber seemed to think for a while before replying. “Then the solution is obvious.”

Suddenly, the new Servant stood up and walked quickly away.

“A-Alter?!” Ritsuka called out, but something told her that regardless of form, Artoria was just as stubborn and bullheaded as always. Nothing could stop the Saber when she set her mind to something.

Artoria plopped down right next to EMIYA on the far table, fitting in the space between the Archer and the end of the bench. She didn’t seem disturbed by the multiple wide eyes staring at her like she’d grown a second head. Bedivere suddenly stopped sniffling. Diarmuid finally took his eyes off the blank space on the wall.

The gothic-looking woman pointed to the fries that sat untouched. “I shall have that. There is no sense in letting food go to waste.” she droned monotonously, staring up into EMIYA’s faded eyes.

Wordlessly, he nodded his head. Someone else pushed the plate in front of Alter, who immediately began inhaling the meal like she’d been starved for a few days. In a record few seconds, the dish was empty, and she was pointing to the second platter.

EMIYA gave her the cookies. Then the croissants. The tarts. Each one she finished, his heart felt a little lighter. By the time she came to the last dish he prepared, Lancer was smiling. He was smiling too. It was bittersweet, but a smile nonetheless.

Ritsuka watched the scene unfold silently, right up until Artoria Alter finished the last plate of snacks and EMIYA went back to the kitchen to cook up something else.

The new Servant looked so odd amongst the knights at the table, her dress so gloomy in contrast to what the others had on. She was awkward as the guys tried to strike up conversation. Too terse. Too rigid. But none of them left, even after the second batch of EMIYA’s cooking had come and gone.

Alter obviously wasn’t a perfect fit. She would never be. But she filled in the gaping hole her other self left just enough for it to be bearable. She closed the emotional gap just enough to pull the others out of the dark. Today, the knights. Tomorrow, maybe, the kings.

Ritsuka kissed the small, torn piece of Arturia’s card in her hands. She'd keep trying, but she didn’t know if—when—she didn’t know when the King of Knights that they knew would come back. She didn't even know if there was a chance they could restore her memories and records. They'd figure something out. They had to.

But in the meantime, she thought, glancing once more at Saber Alter.

This was enough.

___

hope you liked it ;) sorry it took so long

-akampana

[ye0liessunshine]

The source. Lee Chan

(im.

pairing: lee chan !non-idol x reader !female

summary: Surrounded by an enchanted forest, which broods your kisses and your secrets. You run towards the source, the one that remembers all your first times. Your source.

word count: ~600

a/n: slight description of intimate body parts. Mentions of !blood! Overall a smut/fluff with a dreamy atmosphere mostly focused on the forest!

His childish laughter resonates in the infinite space of the forest, between the trees, the bark and the roots.

As with an experimental pianist, the notes slide and roll, from note to note. The notes tumble, clear, the water of a wild spring. He laughs because he likes it, he feels light under the shade of the pines. The moss is still wet with dew under his feet, he sinks. The birds sing and he answers them, raising his head to the blue sky, his neck stretching.

Then he smiles and looks at me, his eyes crinkled with visible crow's feet. He smiles a lot, his face keeps the traces of it even if he is only eighteen years old. His skin is pale in the sun, when we put our arms side by side, it looks like a piece of snow in the middle of the greenery. We walk, without paying attention to the noise we make. To the crunch of our steps, to the echo of our voices. The forest keeps our secrets buried, our passage is erased by the wind. And the few sheep that hear us, flee before they see us. We run, his pale legs are scratched by legs and brambles. His porcelain skin is marbled with small red cuts and older bruises. Chan grimaces, then smiles, squeezes my hand against his palm. I almost stumble against a log, scream, cling to his arm and get up on the other side. Where are we going?

To the heart of the forest, its center. Where the animals go to drink, to the spring. The way to get there is always new, his pretty smile brings mine. "Why are you laughing?" "I can't wait to get there" he answers.

The sound of the water rises to a crescendo at the end of the valley, the knolls are higher around us. We are there, the hollow of the forest. The spring flows in different streams, so small that they get lost in the ferns. Large granite slabs line the water to enclose it, leaving only one outlet from which it flows. The sun crashes down on the foliage above, a few rays managing to pierce it to illuminate the pool below. It's shallow, enough to swim in, our hips below the surface. I go ahead of him, let go of his hand and trample the last few meters of leaves. The hard rock is finally under my feet, warm and smooth. So smooth that it is soft. The granite hugs the curves of the body and dries it as it leaves the water; it serves as a seat, an armrest or a bed. Our place. We chose it, it chose us to shelter our kisses. Our caresses shared with the stone, the transparent water twinned with our sweat and our tears. I undress before I even see him arrive at the edge. My toes are still hesitant at the idea of a swim. They are the first to taste the sweet bite of the cold. This time, I swim a little alone, as a mermaid who can only breathe out of the water, against his mouth. A complete shock goes through me, the water is icy, burning, heavy. I swim towards the edge, he is sitting on the granite stone. Naked, the glance lowered towards the siren with the two legs. His skin contrasts with everything, especially his dark brown hair. Naked, his lips, his nipples and his sex are of a different color. He has three in all, white, dark brown and pink. A smoky, faded pink. She does not contrast with him, but her lips are red...

[lilacmeadows]

Made For You pt.3

I’m so sorry for the late post guys! I had the most hectic work load today. I’m taking too many goddamn classes this semester. ANYWAY here is my filthy part 3. I mean... they still haven’t fucked, but we’re getting there. I think this can be wrapped in a nice little 4 part bow, but I also kinda want 10 chapters of them together because I’m a slut for this dynamic. This is my FIRST TIME writing smut! So go easy on me. Thank you so much for reading! - Savvy

BUCKY X READER

Summary: Hydra had just finished training you to be the Winter Soldier’s perfect mate when the Avengers saved him. But what’s going to happen to you now that Hydra has deleted your old life and left you with nothing but a soldier that needs to learn to love himself before he can love someone else.

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3   Part 4

WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, explicit language, underage reader (nothing sexual happens underage), stockholm syndrome, mentions of family death, eventual dom/sub dynamics, mentions of captivity and kidnapping. violence- guns, mutual pining, SMUT, ORAL (m receiving), FLUFF, angst if you squint (must be 18+)

Word Count: 2300

It was a short ride to the compound, and y/n had a hard time keeping up with the fast walking team as they tried to explain little things along the way.

She hadn’t been outside in a decade. The grass was green and warm where it met her bare feet as she walked behind Sam and Steve. The rest of the team immediately left the quinjet, seeking the comfort of their showers and beds. Bucky was the last to leave, not feeling right about just disappearing from her, but keeping his distance.

Y/n was still so heartbroken. Hearing about her family’s death had really stung, and she knew if she dwelled on it, she’d cry about it for days. But all she really had time to be sad about was how cold her Soldat was towards her. It seemed very much like he didn’t want her around him.

Steve and Sam brought y/n inside the residential wing of the compound. They toured the common areas, kitchen, and showed her where everyone’s bedroom was. They finally got to a guest bedroom down the hall from Natasha, and left her to get cleaned up and comfortable.

Y/n looked around her new bedroom. It was barely decorated, but she had to admit, it was still much nicer than her room with the Men. She sat her yarn and needles down on a table and sat on the large bed. Her body instantly sank into it, the plush comforter conforming to her body in a way the single sheet never did on the twin bed she slept on.

But she couldn’t enjoy her new favorite place in the world for long because not 3 minutes later, she heard a soft knock at her door. She opened it, and much to her surprise, Bucky was standing there, with 2 pairs of sweatpants, and 3 t shirts in his arms.

“I figured you’d want some fresh clothes after you’re clean.” He said sheepishly, not making eye contact with her. “You can ask Nat about undergarments.”

That made her giggle the tiniest bit. “I’m not allowed to wear any undergarments.” But he should know that. She was trained to do things to please him, so wouldn’t he like her to not have on obstructing materials?

“Oh. Well, umm… you can now… If you want to. It’s up to you.” She could see the blush rise up his neck, coloring the bits of his face that weren’t blanketed by hair. She took in his attire. He obviously changed out of his tactical mission gear, in favor of the sweatpants he wore that looked almost identical to the ones in his arms. He also appeared to be freshly showered, his hair still damp, and if she looked close enough, she could see little wet patches on his shirt from where he didn’t dry himself completely.

“Are these your clothes?” She asked, taking the bundle from his arms and opening her door wider so he could enter her room.

“Yeah, Steve went a little overboard on the shopping when I first got here. They’ll be a little big, but the pants have a drawstring, so it should work for now. Until you get something better.” He stood awkwardly in the middle of his room.

Y/n didn’t know what possessed her to put the sweatpants up to her face and inhale deeply. She just felt a primal urge to know what he smelled like. Gunpowder, wood, and something naturally male- Bucky. She couldn’t stop the moan low in her throat.

Bucky watched her as she did that. He felt his pants tighten just at the thought of her in his clothes, and the way she just smelled his pants and let out that sound of satisfaction, made him want to take her right there.

“Thank you, sir.” Y/n replied. Fully engulfed in her embarrassment.

“Y/n, you really don’t need to call me that. I’m just Bucky.” He reminded her. Honestly, he loved when she called him Sir- the authority it gave him, but it made an unholy amount of blood flow directly to his cock and he couldn’t think as clearly. Especially when she looked up at him with those innocent eyes.

“Okay, Bucky.” She said, trying the name out on her tongue. He liked the way she said it. “If that makes you happy.” She risked a step closer to him.

“You need to do what makes you happy.” He took an equally measured step back, knowing he was close to giving in to her temptation.

“I’m working on it, Bucky. But I need your permission. I just wanna be good for you.” She said, quickly taking 3 more steps until she was about 6 inches from his face.

“This isn’t right, Y/n. You don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Hydra wanted this. You don’t have to belong to me.” She craned her neck up to be closer to his lips, but he was determined to reason with her before he does something he can’t take back.

“But I want to belong to you. I thought about you every day for 10 years years, Bucky. And I hadn’t even seen you.” Bucky tilted his head down ever so slightly, their lips were just shy of touching. “Let me be good for you, Bucky. Let me make you happy.” She repeated.

“Okay.” Was all he said. He expected their lips to touch then, but she was already down in her knees. None of her videos showed passionate kissing. She wanted to please him in the way she read about in her studies.

On her knees, Y/n was able to see the thick outline of his erect cock very easily, and couldn’t stop the involuntary moan. Just as she did with his other sweatpants, Y/n pressed her face against the bulge and inhaled deeply. Between the smell that was just so him, and the warmth of his clothed cock rubbing on her face, she was starting to go feral for the man standing in front of her in complete shock.

Bucky hadn’t been with a woman since before the war, and they definitely weren’t like this. He watched as she was damn near purring while she rubbed her face on him. She reminded him of a kitten, the way she open-mouthed kissed the line of his cock through his sweatpants. Then she pulled them down, and he felt her wet tongue roll around the fat tip.

“Shit, Y/n, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do you want me to stop, Sir?” She said, taking another lick from base to tip.

“God no. Fuck.” he groaned as she started put his balls in her mouth and sucked, hard. “But if you keep working me like that this is definitely gonna stop.”

She moaned hearing him fall apart above him- finally fulfilling her destiny. Making her Soldat happy.

“Fuck, Babydoll, you’re so good at this. Where the fuck did you learn this?” He asked, more to himself than to her, seeing as she started bobbing and swiveling her head. He wanted to put his hands in her hair, but ultimately decided not too. If he was gonna let this happen, it had to be at her pace.

She had never seen a cock in person but she knew he must be above average, her tongue counting 3 thick veins running up the sides and bottom of it. Trying to remember everything she saw the women in the videos doing and all the descriptions she read in the erotic literature, she hollowed her mouth around him and flattened her tongue against the underside of his cock.

“Fucking hell, Babydoll you’re doing so well for me. Y/n, shit.” She felt his cock touch the back of her throat and gagged around the intrusion. Spit mixed with precum rolling down her chin. When she looked up at him, her big eyes meeting his, he lost it. She could feel his cock harden just a little bit more, and his balls tightened, right before he released his heavy load into her throat. She backed up a little so it wouldn’t go straight down, she wanted to feel him on her tongue and taste him. Once she was sure she got every drop, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue a little so he could see his cum sitting on it before she swallowed it all with a soft moan.

“Did I do good, Sir?” She said, still sitting in front of him, his cock softening in her face as she watched the anatomy work in fascination. She reached her hand out to touch it, really appreciating the feel and warmth of his skin. He groaned loudly at the overstimulation and the sound of her normally smooth voice, now rough from the number she did on him.

“Fuck, Y/n, you did so good, Babydoll. You’re such a good girl.”

And in that moment he felt like he could pass out. He wanted to vomit because he looked down at her face and saw the innocence still in her eyes. Good girl. He remembered saying those words to her before. So long ago. He saw a flash of a memory of rubbing a little girl’s head before knocking her out. Carrying her to her house and tucking her in her bed, before stroking her face one last time and leaving. He remembered how Hydra fried him so hard after that mission, they were afraid they killed him. She looked different, older, but it was the same eyes. Definitely her. And there that same girl was, on her knees for him, and just gave him the best blowjob of his life.

He tucked himself back into his sweatpants. Part of him wanted to run away. He was ashamed of himself. He knew that he should have turned her down and left before anything could happen. He took advantage of her. But he also knew that if he just left now with no explanation, he would be an even bigger asshole. Times like that made him miss the simplicity of not having control over his life.

“Y/n, you did such a good job for me.” He stood her up, pulling her in for a bone crushing hug. This confused her, because she never saw the aftermath in her videos. It was always brutal and then the woman was just left there. But he was so gentle with her as he tenderly stroked her hair and lowered his lips to hers for a kiss.

It was the absolute least he could do. He wanted to kiss her- he wanted to reciprocate and make her see stars, but his mind was racing. Debating if it was a good time to tell her about their previous encounter, wondering if she remembered him and was acting, or if she had no idea that he’s the reason she was kidnapped. And even though he didn’t kill them, the reason her family is dead. Selfishly, he decided that it would be best if he told her another time. He hadn’t experienced intimacy like this in so long, and Y/n’s lips felt amazing on his.

He finally broke the kiss to give her air, knowing she doesn’t have the lung capacity he has. “Do you want to have dinner with me?” He asked, not wanting to rush her into anything else. He knew he’d be going to hell for it, but he needed to be around her.

“I would love to, Sir.” She said with the biggest smile her face could muster. He swore he’d never get tired of seeing that smile. Feeling her tits press against his chest through the thin cotton layers of both of their clothes. Hearing how she moaned just a little when he stroked her jaw. He could feel his brain going fuzzy from just the intoxicating proximity of their embrace as they hugged, swaying slightly and exchanging sweet kisses in between longing looks.

“Call me, Bucky.” He gently reminded her. For his sake, really- his self control couldn’t handle her constant submissive nature. “I’m gonna let you take that shower, and in the meantime, I’ll go order some take out. Do you like chinese?” He asked, putting some distance between them, to prevent her from noticing how he was getting hard all over again and dropping to her knees for round two.

“Chinese people? I don’t know any, but I’m sure they’re lovely.” She replied, a little confused by his strange question.

Part of him liked that he wasn’t the most clueless person in the compound anymore. When it came to texting and pop culture, he was useless, but Y/n was held in captivity. She didn’t have takeout, or dinner dates, or freedom to shower with nobody watching her. He would be able to teach her those things, and he liked that. Someone needing him for more than violence. Someone to take care of.

“I’ll just go order the food. I’ll be back soon, Babydoll. There should be shampoo and conditioner in the shower with towels and all types of other stuff. Just look around a bit.” He said before he walked out of her room. She had never experienced moisture between her thighs like she was in that moment, so a shower was probably a good idea. 

Part 4

~

(if you wanna join my taglist, just let me know)

@austynparksandpizza @dracris33 @crzcorgi @musicheaux @little-moonbeam-666 @andydre4m @anakinravageme @hydrasbitches @bl4ckglitt3r @wondergirl556

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Come Home

Prompts: Omg ur twins series has given me the seratonin I didn’t know I needed ;-; love ur fics!!! can I request maybe a one shot where Merlin confronts hunith about his birth parents, and they have a wholesome talk about it? Also bonus points for Merlin coming to terms with the fact that uther is his father and Morgana is his half sister (everyone notices now that they share similar features) - anon

ahhhh i loved the second installment of the twin series, the ending makes me yearn for more no matter how much i reread it *prompt idea* brotherly love pleaseeee, you've built so much hype 😭 some overprotective arthur over his younger brother, maybe some asshole noble treating merlin like shit because he grew up peasant, a merlin-arthur talk about feelings and new revelations, merlin-morgana-arthur talk (maybe?) take as long as you want really, no pressure i know it'll be worth it but a bit longer third installment please 💘 - anon

I have a very simple request oh ruler of the angst town. You've been graciously filling the stomachs of the Sanders Sides fandom but the Merlin fandom requests one thing: More, please, oh good lord. Thank you - alittletoo-obsessed

SO MANY OF YOU WERE SCREAMING FOR A PART THREE SO HERE YOU GO

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none, babes.

Pairings: it's found family hours

Word Count: 4574

The twins come home.

After a long, long time, the twins come home.

For Arthur, home is that empty space just over his shoulder, always there when he turns absentmindedly to talk to someone he never thought he’d see again. Home is someone to curl up with when the nights get cold and lonely, dark hair brushing under the tip of his nose as he wraps them in his arms. Home is someone else to see what’s happening, to stand as a silent vow of I’m here, I see you, I’m with you, I’ve got you.

For Merlin, home is someone who knows he’s not crazy, who catches him when he flies too high on the wings of his magic. Home is someone who wraps firm, solid arms around him, smelling of slightly spiced fruit and afternoon sun. Home is the space the magic curls about, searching for something to hold onto like an anchor as the world spins faster, faster, faster.

They leave the hall where Uther still sits, thunderstruck on his hollow throne, back to Arthur’s chambers. They don’t part when they get inside, stumbling across the room to the bed, somewhere they can sit and look and look at each other where there is no one else can see. Arthur reaches out to run his hand through Merlin’s hair.

“I always thought your hair would be dark,” he mumbles, losing himself in the way his fingers card through the strands. “Just had a feeling.”

“Mum’s hair was never dark enough to be mine.” Merlin closes his eyes as he feels Arthur’s hand go through it. “And—and Balinor, he—he wasn’t the right magic.”

Arthur’s hand stills. “Balinor was your father?”

“He was married to Hunith, he—but—“

Arthur’s arms are suddenly around him, warm and perfect and real and it feels like something else slots into place. Arthur’s breath warms the top of his head and Merlin feels his fingertips start to buzz.

“I’m sorry,” he realizes Arthur’s saying, “I didn’t—if I’d’ve known, I would’ve—“

They will come to find that they don’t need words. Merlin just buries his nose in the crook of Arthur’s neck and breathes in the smell of home.

“I kept the blanket I was taken in,” he mumbles, “and it smelled like this.”

“Like—like me?”

Merlin nods. “Fruit. Sunlight. Warm.”

“Warm doesn’t have a smell, Merlin.”

“Sure it does.”

“What does it smell like, then?”

“Warm! You don’t explain what apples smell like, they just smell like apple.”

“Sure you can, they smell tart, a little sweet, but it’s a thin smell, it’s not rich.”

“Where and why do you know how to describe smells so well?”

“Morgana went through an alchemy phase, dragged me into being her test subject.”

Merlin snorts, nuzzling deeper into Arthur’s warmth. “I imagine you reeked of an awful assortment of perfumes.”

“Oh, it was an excellent way to get out of court duty.”

They laugh together. Then Merlin quiets, burying his nose in the smell of home and willing his magic to help him come up with something.

“…it’s barely noticeable,” he says quietly, “but it’s…it’s there. It’s slightly, um, it smells a bit like old leather, or old wood, but it’s…it’s earthier.”

Arthur’s quiet for a moment, then Merlin feels his head turn and bury into Merlin’s hair.

“I always thought you’d be colder.” His arms tighten slightly, as if he can feel how Merlin’s magic is trying to pull him closer—and hey, maybe he can. “I—you used to get really strong on winter nights. I used to imagine that you’d—you’d be cold and it was my job to keep you warm and if you were warm, you’d—you’d stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Merlin says immediately, “I’ll stay.”

“You’d better.”

For Arthur, it’s finally seeing that figure sprinting ahead of him, goading him to chase faster and faster. It’s hearing about how cruel bullies were and sternly promising that if anyone ever tries anything like that again, he’ll kick their arse. It’s hearing a mumbles admission of crying while angry and promising that he’ll never judge Merlin for crying, not when he’s here to protect him.

For Merlin, it’s his magic finally having both of them to wrap its blanket around, someone else to hold him firmly when it can’t do the job itself. It’s hearing about how lonely life as a prince can be and vowing that he’s just going to sit next to Arthur and damn all the customs. It’s hearing about the cruelty of a king that didn’t know how to be a father first and muttering that Uther would see what the bloody hell he was doing wrong.

It’s home.

——————————————

News that Uther has another son spreads like a sickness in the castle. Servants whisper that the long-lost boy has returned, that the curse of the dead queen has lifted because her son is back, that finally, finally, Uther will stop the hell-path he’s wrought upon the kingdom.

Servants whisper that the nobles won’t like this. That they’re sick of having to put up with Arthur already, that if there’s another son, they’ll have another obstacle in their path.

Some nobles are clever.

They know that if Uther has a peasant son, he’ll have to make the boy a noble or denounce him completely. Or, and this is not a very likely option, he’ll have to accept that he has one royal son and one peasant son.

Some nobles aren’t clever.

They think that if Uther has another son, it doesn’t matter.

The nobles that know the knights know that they won’t be able to get within ten feet of Merlin. Many of them don’t want to. They’re not quite sure what position Merlin holds in court, but it’s not a manservant’s. They know that the boy who came to Camelot and managed to get the prince to shut up for once is a good one. Some of them hold the opinion that if Uther is what he made his son into, he might actually listen to the boy as well.

The nobles that don’t know the knights are stupid.

One such noble decides that it doesn’t matter whether or not the boy is of royal blood, the king hasn’t claimed him, and thus he is still a peasant.

He decides, in his infinite wisdom, to humiliate the boy by dousing him with wine for forgetting to thank him for giving him an order.

Merlin has been covered with wine before, this isn’t new to him. What is new is that he has a brother that takes great pleasure in dragging the unsuspecting noble to the front of the room and publicly shaming him.

“Have you so little sense of yourself that you must stoop to the humiliation of others for your own amusement? Perhaps if you spent more time thinking of what to do with your words you wouldn’t be so intimidated by the confidence of someone else. I would be surprised to learn if you had a mind since your only defense is to sling wine all over someone’s front. You are a disgrace to everything you proclaim to be and I would be ashamed of you if you were one of my men.”

It’s not the most direct way to banish someone and strip them of their place in court, but it is one of the more entertaining.

Of course, when a noble is demoted to a knight, he ends up at the mercy of the elder knights on the training field. It’s one of the only times Gwaine shows up promptly for a training session.

Merlin mumbles that Arthur didn’t have to do that, that he’s had worse, but later in the privacy of their rooms, Arthur says that he’s making up for the years where he wasn’t there.

“And it wasn’t just for you, it was for the knights too.”

“How noble.”

——————————————

It’s in the way Arthur still tries to turn into the tower corridor that first tips Merlin off. It’s the way his hands still twitch toward an old sword hanging on the wall. It’s the way he turns to his other side, not where Merlin always stands, expecting someone to be there. It’s the way he looks at the other side of Uther’s throne, expecting there to be another one.

It’s the way Merlin knows what feels like to miss another half of yourself.

“I want to find her,” he says quietly after a long day, “she’s your sister.”

Arthur pauses, fingers faltering on the edge of a cabinet. His head bows low.

“She is, Arthur,” Merlin says, standing, “and she’s mine too.”

“I know.”

“There’s still good in her, Arthur, I know there is.”

“I know.”

“I—“ Merlin swallows. “I’m to blame for what she’s become, I’m the one who poisoned her.”

“I’m the one who drove her away from the start,” Arthur says, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’m not blameless either.”

There’s a pause.

Arthur glances at Merlin. “There was a time when I thought you were her. That the—the person I was missing was her.”

“She’s magic too, it makes sense.”

Arthur nods, staring into space. “But she wasn’t you. Her—I guess I didn’t know it was magic, then, but her—her magic never felt right.”

He turns to take a hunting satchel down from the hook.

“Do you know how to find her?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, “but you’re not coming.”

“What?”

Merlin holds his hands up. “She’ll try to kill you, you know it. She won’t listen to you. Not at first.”

“And she won’t try to kill you? You poisoned her!”

“I have magic. She can’t beat me.”

“Merlin.”

“I’ll be safe!”

“When have you ever been safe in your life?”

“Like you’re in any position to judge!”

The bickering continues until Merlin grabs Arthur’s arm and tells him that he needs to do this. That it has to be him, only him, that he knows how to reach Morgana in a way that Arthur can’t.

Arthur lets him go with a strict promise to be back in a fortnight, no more.

Merlin knows how to find Morgana. Arthur’s connection to magic isn’t like his, but he is born of the stuff. And so is Morgana.

There’s a tingle in Merlin’s fingertips non-stop when he’s in Camelot, his magic tugging him towards Arthur and the magic in him. But Uther’s blood flows in both of their veins, so if he focuses, he can find Morgana.

His travels lead him to a forest home, modest and slight, but secure enough that he knows he can’t just walk in. There are half a dozen places where she could be hiding nearby, half a dozen more where traps could be. So he picks his way carefully through the undergrowth and knocks on her door.

He expects to be knocked out and strung up. He doesn’t expect her to raise an eyebrow and try and bind him with a curse.

He bats the curse away without trying to hide the way his eyes glow gold.

Morgana’s eyes widen and she stumbles back. He raises his hands and weathers the spitting, the curses—just cusses, this time—of his betrayal, how dare he, and apologizes.

“You were the vessel,” he says as his only defense, “I didn’t think there was any other way.”

“And what if you told me?” She draws herself up, looking every bit the queen she was born to be. “I could’ve helped! Perhaps I would’ve taken it of my own free will, you had no right to strip me of that choice.”

“I know. And I am sorry. For all of it. For not telling you, for trying to kill you, for—for everything.”

She evaluates him cooly. “Well, I suppose that’s that, then? You want me to accept your apology and toddle back to Camelot?”

And the thing is…he can see it now.

He and Arthur don’t share that many features, but he and Morgana…

It’s the angular jaw. The way the nose slopes slightly to the right instead of the left. The way one eye is a little bit longer than the other. The dark hair, wavy but not too wavy. The slender build, the sharp shoulders.

The way their magic curls about their fingertips before the spell is cast.

Morgana seems to notice him staring and frowns, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“Sorry,” he manages, still marveling at how he never noticed, “sorry, I just…”

“Just…what?”

His magic thrums in his hands, telling him to let it go, reach out to their sister, help her see. He obeys, opening his hand and letting the magic swirl up, into the air. Morgana’s eyes widen and she takes a step back, preparing a defensive spell of her own only for her jaw to drop as her magic touches Merlin’s.

It doesn’t feel like coming home, not like finding Arthur did, but it feels like something.

“What…how is this possible?”

“I’m your brother,” Merlin whispers, peering through the lattice of magic, “I—you’re my sister.”

At the word ‘sister,’ something in Morgana’s magic flinches. Merlin frowns, peering closer, eyes widening when he notices a dark patch, almost as if the magic is bruised from being constrained. His own magic touches it carefully, recoiling in shock.

“What is that? Morgana, what happened to you?”

She rubs her wrist absent-mindedly, her face contorting into a scowl. “The last person to call me ‘sister.’”

Merlin’s eyes widen. Morgana retracts her magic, burying it deep inside herself and taking a deep breath. When she looks at Merlin again, she looks almost like the woman Merlin met in Camelot.

“So. That means Arthur’s your brother too.”

Merlin nods. “I was…we were born of the same magic.”

“And that makes Uther your father.”

Merlin's face contorts in rage and Morgana snorts.

“Yes, that was my reaction too.”

“Balinor was my father,” Merlin says firmly, curling his hands into fists, “Uther is not.”

“But you have his blood,” Morgana says quietly, not meaning to hurt, just to inform, “and you are bound to him. Just as I am.”

Now it is Merlin that has to look desperately at Morgana, hoping for it to be anything other than the truth.

“You can’t have Arthur without Uther, Merlin,” she murmurs, “you have to accept that. You can’t have Arthur without Camelot. You can’t have your brother without your father.”

“And what about my sister?”

Her smile is sad. “I had neither for a long time.”

“I just got my sister,” Merlin says firmly, “I’m not letting her go again.”

“Oh, and that’s your decision, is it?”

Merlin blinks. “Um—well, I mean—if—if that’s okay with you—“

Her laugh is high, like pealing bells, and it makes him smile to hear it. “How you manage to switch between those two will always astound me. No wonder no one else ever figured out you had magic.”

“Excuse you, I did a perfectly good job at hiding my magic.”

“Gaius used to scream about it with the door open, Merlin, that’s not exactly subtle.”

“How is that my fault?”

She giggles and oh, is this what it’s like to have a sister?

Their laughter ends and Morgana crosses her arms, head bowed as she thinks. Merlin lets his magic flutter around the room, cleaning up, until she raises her head again.

“Do you think Uther can change?”

Merlin sighs. “I don’t know. But I do know we can change the minds of everyone else.”

“Starting with Arthur, I presume?”

“Arthur. The knights. Most of the council. The servants.”

“Got a plan for this, do you?”

“…not really good at plans.”

“Well, no, not if most of them involve poisoning sisters.”

“Hey!”

Morgana laughs again, then her smile softens and she rushes forward to wrap her arms around Merlin.

“Your magic feels warm,” she mumbles, “not like Morgause’s. Maybe I’ll enjoy being your sister.”

“And Arthur’s?”

“If he can pull his head out of his arse, we’ll see.” She lets him go and walks toward the front of the house.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“To see if we can both pull his head out of his arse, it’s so big we’ll need the two of us.”

“Right now?”

“Unless you think I should wait?” There it is. The tiniest hint of vulnerability in the way her voice wobbles at the end.

A question of whether Morgana would actually be welcomed back into Camelot, a question of whether Arthur would want her back. A question of how true this fantasy really is.

Merlin straightens. “No,” he says firmly, “let’s just hope the two of us can do it together.”

——————————————

Arthur never thought he’d see his sister again.

But the instant Morgana walks into his chambers, looking as if she’d never left, she barely has time to open her mouth to deliver a snappy remark before he’s rushing across the room and wrapping her in a hug so fierce it makes Merlin laugh.

Morgana laughs at him with some incredibly clever quip but he isn’t listening. He’s too busy hugging his sister. Who’s finally home, who’s finally here.

“…oh, alright, you big softy,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around him too, “there. Are you happy now?”

“‘Gana.”

“Yes, that’s me. Is your head alright? Merlin, what did you do to him?”

“He’s happy to see his sister, Morgana.”

She sighs dramatically. “Oh, don’t both of you go all sappy on me.”

Arthur just pulls her closer, burying his nose in her neck. “‘Gana.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Oh, Arthur, I missed you too.”

It’s too much. He sticks out his arm and grabs Merlin’s tunic, yanking him closer. Merlin makes a noise of surprise as Arthur bundles them both into the hug. Morgana makes a slightly affronted gesture as she makes room for the two of them, pulling her hair out of the way as Arthur buries his nose between their shoulders.

“I certainly don’t remember him being this clingy, are you sure this is the same Arthur?”

“His head’s certainly big enough.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not exactly the most reliable thing to go on. He’s always been utterly obnoxious.”

“Don’t have to tell me.”

And they’re bickering like siblings and it’s right and it feels right and their magic is here now and he can feel both of them and it’s warm and it makes his chest tingle and—and—

“Oh, oh dear,” he hears Morgana murmur, “Arthur, are you—are you crying?”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.”

“Come, let’s sit down, if you fall over you’ll take the two of us with you.”

“Just try and breathe, it’s okay, we’re not going anywhere.”

Arthur can’t bear to let them go. Not even for an instant. Morgana stays with him, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her fingers scratching lightly through his hair. Merlin sits at his back, his chest warm.

“Come now, you silly man,” Morgana says, trying to keep the tears out of her own voice, “there’s no use crying over this. No man is worth your tears, remember?”

“You’re not a man,” he mumbles, “you’re my sis’er.”

“He’s got a point.”

Morgana sighs. “Oh, Arthur…”

He registers how long’s been crying only when he feels his head start to ring from how stuffy his nose feels. He hooks his chin over Morgana’s shoulder.

“Go on.”

“What?”

“Go on,” he mumbles, “tease me. I know you want to.”

“…I’m not going to tease you, Arthur.”

“Really? All this material and you won’t?”

“Not today,” she murmurs, sounding a little hoarse herself, “not—not today.”

She holds him tighter.

“Not when I’ve just learned I have two brothers.”

He can live with that.

She does tease him later, when he says that he hasn’t missed her at all—a blatant lie, that, and they all know it—or that he’s always been a model of a knight. Of course, she doesn’t have to train with him alone, anymore, she has her pick of the knights. And Merlin.

Because Morgana has magic.

Merlin has magic. Is magic, if the stories are to be believed. And Morgana has always been a quick study.

So sometimes, Arthur will just…watch them. But it’s always that. Just watching.

Merlin is the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth. Morgana is a High Priestess of the Old Religion.

What is Arthur?

“You’re pouting, Princess.”

Arthur barely flinches as Gwaine plops down beside him. He does raise an eyebrow as he feels the rest of the knights sit down around him.

“I’m not pouting, Gwaine.”

“Sure you are.” He flicks Arthur’s arm. “You’re pouting.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Arthur sighs. “And what is it you think I’m pouting over?”

“The fact that you now have to share Merlin with Morgana.”

“That’s not—“

“You’re bright red, Princess, you know I’m right.”

“Enough.”

Lancelot lays a hand on Gwaine’s arm. Gwaine hushes. Percival glances around to make sure there aren’t any other knights near and nods.

“What’s troubling you,” Lancelot asks quietly, “and how can we help?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Elyan sits up a little more. “There’s always something we can do.”

“Not with this,” Arthur mumbles, still watching the two magic users train, “not with this.”

Leon follows his gaze. “Impressive, aren’t they?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you wish you had magic too?��

Damn you, Leon. Damn you.

“…no.”

Leon chuckles softly. “Come now, sire, no need to lie to us.”

“I just—“ Arthur sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. “It’s fine.”

Leon lays a hand on his shoulder.

“…they’re both…incredible—don’t tell them I said that,” Arthur says sharply.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gwaine lies.

Arthur sighs again. “I just…I know I was born of magic, but…”

“You don’t have any,” Leon guesses, “not like they do.”

He shakes his head.

“Eh, you don’t need it,” Gwaine says, leaning up against Arthur’s side, “you’re plenty fine without it.”

Arthur’s head whips around to stare at him in shock. Gwaine raises an eyebrow.

“What? You are.”

“Since when do you give me compliments?”

Gwaine shrugs. “’S not about compliments, it’s about the truth. You’re able to do a shit load of things perfectly fine on your own, you don’t need to have magic for it.”

“He’s right, sire,” Lancelot adds, “your skills are a testament to you, not to whatever magic brought you into this world.”

“I’d follow you with or without magic.” Percival stands tall. “Just so happens you don’t have it. Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“You’re our commander,” Elyan agrees, “that’s that.”

Leon’s hand on his shoulder rubs soft circles, brushing away his protests. He’s not sure if he believes them entirely, not just yet, but maybe…

Maybe one day he will. After all, he thinks with a smile, he’s got some people to help him with that.

He never thought he’d see his sister again.

——————————————

“Mum?”

Hunith turns around and smiles.

“Merlin, come here.”

Merlin rushes forward, wrapping his arms around her in a warm hug.

“Why didn’t you send word you were coming,” she scolds gently, “I would’ve gotten everything ready.”

“I wanted to surprise you!”

“Well, I am surprised. Sit, sit, tell me everything.”

Her son sits, idly toying with his hands. She frowns.

“What’s the matter?”

“I, um…I have a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“Where…where am I from?”

Oh.

Oh.

Hunith smiles and tells him the story. Tells him of how Balinor arrived one night, a little babe clutched in his arms. How he told her how the queen had two children, one that had to be kept safe away from Camelot. How his magic had reached out to her once she held him, wrapped around them as he fell asleep against her breast.

Merlin listens, tears in his eyes, as she tells him that she loved him from the moment she saw him, that he would always have a home here.

“You’re my mum,” he mumbles, wiping away tears, “and I—you’re always gonna be my mum.”

“Oh, Merlin, come here—“

She holds her son in her arms and thanks the magic of the world that gave him to her.

——————————————

Uther responds about as well as you’d expect.

As in, not at all.

At least, not until he realizes that there are three children who are about to make sure he does what he promised Ygraine he would, and if he doesn’t, they’ll do it for him.

He tries to deny having another son, one that was raised as a peasant, no less, only for Arthur to stand up in court and publicly acknowledge Merlin as his brother.

He tries to deny that Morgana is his daughter, only for Morgana to stand tall and proud by Arthur’s side as they declare their intent to rule as brother and sister.

He tries to deny that not one but two of his children have magic, only for Arthur to open talks with the druids by using his brother and sister with magic as ambassadors.

He tries.

He fails.

He wants to think that he still has his loyal knights, but Gwaine and Percival decide that they’re Merlin’s bodyguards, and Leon and Lancelot won’t leave Arthur’s side. Morgana doesn’t need her own bodyguards, but Elyan and Gwen are never far from her.

He wants to think he still has the support of the Council, but Gaius had stood and given a speech about being so happy to see Ygraine’s children home again and his words had been frozen before he could say anything.

He wants to think he’s still the king. But everyone is starting to look to Arthur, to Morgana, not to him.

Once, and only once, he considers getting rid of the boy.

When he wakes from a terrible nightmare of drowned children, burned houses, and Ygraine’s immortal disappointment, he doesn’t think of it again.

Uther isn’t dragged kicking and screaming from his throne, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t many who’d love to if he gave them the opportunity.

He’s not worth lingering on.

[thefanficmonster]

Kick Some Ghost Ass

”Until Dawn Gang x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing, Sex jokes (excuse my bad humor)

Genre: CRACK, Humor

Summary: It’s one thing when trouble finds this gang, but why don’t we take a look at what happens when they go actively looking for trouble. Needless to say, chaos ensues and no one is spared. Some are more affected than others, and some are dead-ass traumatized, but isn’t that just how life is in general?

Requested by my dearest ever - Until Dawn Anon. Hi lovely! I’ve missed writing your requests and I’m really happy to be back, creating another chaotic fic! I’m sorry it has taken me so long to post it but here it finally is - crazy as ever! I hope you enjoy it! Love you to Blackwood Pines and back baby ❤❤❤

I don’t know how I’ve found myself in this situation but I’m not complaining. If I get to do dumb crazy shenanigans with my crew, I’m ready for just about anything. Not to mention I’m no stranger to ghost hunting. I’m that kid that made DIY Ouija boards and took them to cemeteries with their terrified friends. You should’ve seen us leaving after capturing no ghostly activity - my friends relieved as fuck, and me pissed as fuck.

But today, I’m not expecting nor will I be accepting any disappointment. Especially not with Jess swearing on her Chanel purse that she wasn’t making things up when she said she had a haunted house she wanted us to visit. I must say, I appreciate this group’s enthusiasm when it comes to the paranormal. Never have I had someone who catches my vibe on the subject so well, let alone an entire gang all sharing the same opinion as me - that ghosts, demons and poltergeists are so fucking cool. Sure, Emily took a bit of convincing and Jess is not one to give a shit about the other world creatures invisible to the human eye, but something allegedly happened that changed her mind.

Her a-hundred-and-something-year-old great-grandmother passed away recently and though the death itself didn’t shake Jess up as much as it probably should’ve, the events that followed led to this moment right now - the eleven of us pooling out of two minivans that have pulled up to a terrifying looking house in a wooded are of the suburbs. Jess literally gathered us all on an ‘emergency meeting’ in the courtyard of our college just so she could explain the situation in detail - she doesn’t do well with explaining things in general, let alone when she’s hysterical - so we only understood what she was trying to say when she mentioned the word ‘ghost’. That’s when we all started listening more closely, with the exception of Emily, Beth and Sam but the latter two were intrigued despite trying yo hide it. You can only imagine how excited Josh, Chris and I were, Mike and Matt following a close second behind. Ash was a tiny bit more hesitant but Chris convinced her to give in. And just like that, a week later, here we are.

“I gotta ask, did your great-gran own a VHS player? Or a chest in the attic? Bonus points if there’s a creepy, child-sized doll in there.“ Josh asks as he yanks all the equipment he insisted we bring out of the trunk of the minivan.

“Quit fucking around, Josh! This is serious!“ Jess complains from the spot she’s standing in, shivering in the cold autumn breeze.

“Yeah, Josh! VHS players, creepy dolls, that’s all child’s play.“ I scold him as I pull on my jacket, wrapping it around me more tightly, “Shit gets serious when there’s a secret basement.“

“Y/N!“ Jess shrieks in exasperation. Honesty, how am I supposed to NOT bother her when doing the opposite is so much easier and brings more amusement? “You’re not helping!“

“Wasn’t trying to.“ I wink at her, driving her into a new level of fury that almost leads her to chuck her phone at me. If it weren’t such a prized possession of hers, I’m pretty sure she would’ve chucked it with the intention of knocking me dead. I’m lucky she has the aim of a drunk toddler that spun around fifteen times.

“Hey, quit pissing my girlfriend off, will ya?!“ Mike, who is basically halfway inside the trunk of the other van calls out to us.

I roll my eyes but choose to let it slide. However, someone else doesn’t. Emily does a dramatic turn on her heel, turning to face Mike, or at least the only part of him which is visible. You can imagine how hard it is arguing with an ass like THAT. I don’t know how Emily does it but oh well, I guess I do it too, in a way.

“So it’s girlfriend now, huh? No space between the words?“ Oh that smile she’s flashing him, it could make the Devil himself shiver. I find it kinda hot though - it means shit’s about to go down or hit the fan, either way, the rest of us will be entertained.

Mikey boy straightens up, gracing the rest of us by-standers with his dazzling features. Nah, I’m capping. I honestly think Mike is as attractive as I am patient - very little, almost not at all. It’s surprising how him and Jess are now apparently together since I always pegged her to be the superficial type.

“Got a problem with that, Em?“ He asks, eyebrow raising, head tilting to the side. Oh yeah, it’s on now. But, as someone who’s been quite excited to do some ghost hunting, and also as a representative of the peanut gallery formed of the rest of us who find it amusing and annoying, I feel the need to cut it short before it goes where it shouldn’t. I came to see some exorcist shit, not Keeping Up With The Bitter Exs.

“Jess, I sure hope your grandma is a blood-thirsty ghost cause I can think of at least two people I’d serve to her on a silver platter.“ I snatch the keys the blond has been jingling nervously between her fingers and jog up the stairs to the front door.

Ok I maybe overexaggerated the eeriness of the house. It sure wouldn’t sit right with you if you saw it around sunset or at night, especially not if it’s foggy, but a horror movie house it is most certainly isn’t. It’s pristine and well kept, not a single crack in the walls, the only reason it’s unsettling is because: 1) We’ve all seen a few too many horror movies; 2) There’s been reports of ‘ghostly activity’ - as far as Jess is to be trusted.

While I’m surfing through all the keys, checking each and every single one of them on the door because the real key is unmarked, I can’t help but overhear the conversation going on behind me on the porch.

“Can you believe we got all this in a single day and for a discount on top of all?! Whoever says Craigslist sucks isn’t doing it right.“ Chris’ enthusiasm over the deal him and Josh got on the ghost hunting equipment has been what’s keeping a wide grin on his face this whole time. Though I’m proud of my boys for not getting murdered by the Craigslist seller, I must say I hate that I lost the bet we had - I had to pay them each ten bucks if they didn’t get scammed/kidnapped/murdered and I’m now twenty bucks poorer. I’m not saying I value those twenty bucks more than my friends, though my broke ass needs all the bucks it has and all the dollar bills it could get, but Lord knows I hate losing.

“Yeah, and the guy was only mildly sketchy.“ Josh adds just as excitedly and proudly, “To be honest, Cochise and I were probably the scary looking ones in that parking lot.“

A look over my shoulder shows the twins, Sam, Matt and Ash giving the duo skeptical and somewhat disappointing looks and shakes of their heads. I’ll admit, the equipment is in very good condition and it’s the complete set for ghost-hunting, according to BuzzFeed at least. I’m impressed with the purchase - probably had something to do with how scary Chris and Josh actually look. The all-nighters we’ve all been pulling lately have taken a toll on them worst with the dark circles and bags under their hollow eyes, pale faces and brains turned to mush. I know I’d give them a discount to avoid them pulling out meat cleavers on me.

“That’s all fine and dandy guys, but do you know how to work any of this?“ Sam asks, hesitantly lifting the EMF reader and turning it in her hand, analyzing it with a curious gaze. 

Josh and Chris exchange a look before the former replies, “Just the cameras and voice recorder, the rest falls on them.” He points a finger at me and laughs, “Though they aren’t able to work something as simple as keys, they are more than qualified to be a ghostbuster.”

“You know, Josh, jokes on you, I can work keys! Jess, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to work well with organizing things, hence my problem with these keys.“ I hurl the bunch of keys connected my a scarlet keychain at Josh, “Lemme demonstrate my true skills.“ I hop down the flight of stone stairs and approach the pile of equipment the guys have created smack-dab in the middle of the house’s driveway. 

“Oh, I gotta see this!” Mr. Ex-Class-President all but runs over, frowning when we all turn to look at him just as I pick up the spirit box to show off how it works, “Oh that’s what you meant. So you aren’t taking your clothes off?“

Jess and I are alike in one thing - the need we feel to chuck objects at people who piss us off. “You’re girlfriend is, like, right behind you, Munroe. Have some decency!”

“I was gonna enjoy a show as well, but I’m guessing we won’t be getting one.“ The girlfriend in question replies, looking at me quizzically as though that’s gonna convince me into discarding my outfit.

“No, unless you’re a ghost.“ I point the device I’m holding at Mike, “But if your boyfriend here keeps acting up I might turn him into one.“

“That sounds kinda kinky.“ Beth’s comment surprises me. The wink she sends me even more so. “And I kinda like it.“

Ok, ok, ok, hold on. 

Flirting with Munroe is one thing, but Beth is a completely different story. I can be threatening Mike with a knife one moment and cracking sex jokes with him over cold beer the next. While Beth actually has the ability to get me flustered and blushing, and my close relationship with her brother doesn’t help. Mother fucker can just whack me upside the head every time he catches me fussing over my silly crush on his sister.

“Ew, you too! Keep it in your pants or at least get a room.“ Emily doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to being herself. She’s truly a garbage bin full of treasure.

“We’d do the latter if SOMEONE could get the door open.” I glare daggers at Josh who is making hopeless attempts at what I was doing earlier - unlocking that damn door.

“I’d be more than happy to come through for you ladies.“ Mike says, getting in a stance of a runner before a race, his body directly opposite the door.

Oh I can’t wait to see where this is going. I SHOULD RECORD IT.

“Mike, it’s still breaking and entering and it’s still against the law even if the person’s dead.“ Sam points out, entering her mother-like mode, ruining the fun and causing me to pout at her. She gives me a look of disappointment - one worse than I’ve ever seen on my parents - so I just shut my trap before she can also express said disappointment through words and have me feeling guilty for the rest of the day.

A loud crash suddenly echoes causing us to turn our heads to look for the source of the terrifyingly startling sound. One glance is all it takes to put our minds at ease and a second one is enough to provoke different reactions in all of us - the broken window telling the story of where Josh has disappeared.

“What did I just say about breaking and entering?!“ Sam shouts after him while the vast majority of us are cracking up like hyaenas. Jess is just gaping at the broken window next to the front door in disbelief. She obviously can’t decide whether to join in on the fun or serve as back-up to Sam. Josh did technically damage private property that’s partially hers, but if you ask me it serves her right for not marking her keys.

“Sorry, I was too busy breaking the window to hear that part of the conversation!“ Josh’s apologetic smile appears on the other side of glassless frame. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sorry or holding back laughter but either way, he looks innocent enough for Sam to let him off the hook as long as he doesn’t cause any more trouble - in which case: tough luck. Chris, Josh and I are nothing if not troublemakers, especially when we’re together. Chris tones it down when Ash’s around, and the same goes for Josh with Sam while I’m simply problematic regardless of who’s watching. My chaos is untamable, it’s a blessing and a curse and I love it, even though it’s landed me in hot water more than once. It’s nice to be around people on the same wavelength - chaos resides within this group and not a single one of us can hide it.

“At least we have a way in now.“ Ash offers Josh a helping hand in this argument after she recovers from the overwhelming fit of laughter. “I hope the broken window doesn’t anger your gran, Jess.“

The blond snaps out of her trance briefly, “No, she was a very sweet lady, but damn is Josh creative!” She hurries to correct herself, “Destructively creative.”

I hurry to correct her once again, “Chaotically creative.”

“Guys, do you mind coming in? It’s very creepy standing here alone!“ Josh calls out to us, looking over his shoulder at the interior of the house, “I’m expecting to be snatched and dragged to that secret basement we mentioned.“

“Mention it one more time and I swear to God-!“ Jess screams, fists tightened.

Before her angry wrath could crash atop us, we all make our way into the house through the broken window, carefully avoiding the shards of glass strewn about. One step inside and we’re met with the upmost of horror clichés - a drop in temperature. We’re all wearing thick hoodies because the weather outside is chilly in and of itself, but said hoodies aren’t as efficient at holding the house’s cold at bay and away from out skin.

Chris and Matt make their way in last, carrying the equipment consisting of three cameras, flashlights for everyone, an EMF reader, a spirit voice box, a voice recorder and a motion detector. I help them hand a light to each group member as well as a ghost-hunting device before we venture onward.

“If I were your grandma’s ghost, I’d be ten times more pissed about that window. It looks to me like that lady payed a lot of attention to keeping things in order.“ Matt comments while he examines the expensive looking painting hanging in the hallway.

I hear Emily scoff, “Unlike some.” but the remark is said so quickly and quietly I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who heard it.

Jess laughs, “She did like things in order, but she was never as strict as you might think. As I said, she was very sweet.“

“So do you just not take after her at all or were you adopted?“ Emily’s remarks are no longer a mumbled jumble of words, “No, nevermind, of course you’re not adopted. Your parents are smart people, they wouldn’t have chosen you if they had the chance.“

Jess laughs again, much more menacingly this time, causing me to exchange a look with Hannah who’s walking beside me. “Twenty bucks says one of them isn’t making it out of here.” It’s just a matter of time, to be honest. If not the lodge, or any party we’ve ever attended as a group, this haunted house is the perfect opportunity for a murder. We could even argue it was a ghost.

Luckily, the two cats clawing at each other’s throats don’t overhear, “No, my parents aren’t stupid, but your boyfriend clearly is. He chooses to date you! Or are you holding him captive or something.“

Ok that’s enough. I can tolerate a lot of things, but people calling one of my best friends stupid is not something I’m about to put up with, “How dare you call one of my hoes stupid?” I sneer at Jess, eyes narrowing.

“I thought I was your hoe too!“ She fights back, looking almost offended.

“Even more reason you shouldn’t have called him that! I don’t tolerate my hoes not respecting each other.“ 

I don’t get to see where this argument goes because Ashley’s shriek echoes throughout the hallway, stealing mine as well as the attention of everyone else. 

“There’s a ghost in here!“ Making it to the doorway of the room she’s in first, I peak my head inside and see the EMF reader she’s holding going nuts as if it’s detected something.

“Don’t worry, Ash, there’s a dead cactus here. That’s not the ghost we’re looking for, is it?“ Chris, my amazingly bright friend says, quirking an eyebrow suggesting that remark was nothing short of dead-ass serious.

“Chris, darling, that’s not how it works. Cactuses are plants.“ I point out as sweetly as I can as to mask my laughter.

“Don’t the same ghostly rules apply?“ The genuine look of confusion he gives me almost makes me lose it.

“Ok children, leave the room, we need to set up a motion detector to be sure.“ Beth says with a tone that suggests she’s more than over our insanity. Jeez, count on her and Sam to start parenting us through our chaos. They are of high authority, must admit - one genuinely feels bad if they don’t comply to whatever these two girls demand.

We all pile out in the hallway while the twins set up this interesting motion detector with green dots. I don’t know what Jess’ granny looked like, but I bet that even the most unattractive of people would look hella good with this lighting. Thankfully the room is dark enough with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn, allowing the dots to be perfectly visible.

We stare at the minimalistic room littered with fluorescent green dots on every surface for maybe a minute or two but not much happens to the disappointment to some and relief to others. However, as if not wanting to let us down, the ghost makes a shy appearance if the shift of the green dots is anything to go by.

“Oh shit, is that a ghost?“ Chris whispers, sounding as amazed as I feel in this moment.

“It better be.“ I mutter in response, refusing to blink and risk missing anything important.

The sudden presence of the obnoxious noise of the spirit voice box makes us all jump. As I turn my head to glare at whoever’s using it, Josh speaks up. “Are you an attractive ghost?”

“Josh, that’s my great-grandmother, you ass!“ Jess barks with disgust in her voice.

In the meantime, I catch glimpse of Mike rolling up his sleeves. Oh shit, this ain’t good.

“I’ve been waiting for this!“ He shouts victoriously, cracking his knuckles.

Knowing this won’t end well, the first thing I do is snatch the camera from Chris’ hands and turn it on.

“Um, Mike, what do you mean?“ Sam’s back to being concerned, turning to the rest of us when Mike doesn’t give her a response, “What’s he gonna do?“

“Fight it.“ I answer as though it’s the most normal thing to ever have been done, “Or, ash he calls it - kick some ghost ass.“

“A freaking ghost?! He’s gonna try to tussle with something he can’t see?“ I can’t tell if Matt’s tone is disbelief, amusement or disappointment, but I believe he isn’t about to try and stop or dear ex-president in his pursuit and that’s all that matters. I ain’t about to let someone stop whatever’s about to go down from going down.

“That’s still my great-grandmother, you dumbass!“ Jess shrieks with something alike terror.

“Don’t worry Jess, I’m sure she’ll go easy on him.“ I say in an attempt to reassure her but I can’t even be bothered really, I’m too laser-focused on the circus that’s about to take place in front of me.

Mike, as if encouraged by my words, charges into the room. Much to his dismay, before he could even reach the ghost, he’s met with a much more vigorous enemy - the carpet. The rascal trips him up and Mr. Munroe falls flat on his face.

The group stays silent, looking at the glorious aftermath of the glorious fall. Told ya these lights could make everything fabulous. Must say, it’s truly an honor for me to have been able to catch all that on tape.

“10/10, would ghost-hunt with Mikey Munroe again.“

[sophi-s]

In Their Hollow Heart

Chapter II: Absolution

Fandom: Hollow Knight video game

Words: 9,832

Characters: Hollow Knight, Hornet, Ghost (the Knight), the Radiance, Tiso (he’s alive, screw the cannon XD), the Pale King

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Sickness, Mind manipulation, Suicidal thoughts, Vomit, Gross imagery, Self harm TW, Permanent injury, Angst, SPOILERS for the game.

Summary:

The tormented Hollow Knight unexpectedly stands face to face with one they thought dead throughout their whole life. And to their astonishment, the very same bug does the impossible and relieves them of their duty.

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Another day passes in utter silence in the Black Egg Temple. Nothing disturbs the stillness of this place aside from a steady sound similar to a heartbeat which comes from the pulsing veins of Infection. And at the centre of the dark chamber illuminated weakly by the said Infection hangs a large, slender figure in armor and a cape. The passage of long years hasn’t done much justice to the once silver-white attire. Cloaked in shadow and held firmly by enchanted chains, the figure makes no move. Only indicators of the spark of life still flickering weakly in them is a loud, disturbingly raspy breath and the furious light in their eyes glinting with madness. Deemed worthy and strong enough to contain the Goddess of Dreams, the failed Vessel holds as still as a statue, sometimes squirming in futile attempts to break free from the chains. The disease keeps spreading without control, only halted by the Void in the ruined body of its host. Such is the fate of the Hollow Knight.

Since the Radiance had torn their willpower to pieces, the Hollow Knight found their true self slipping away into darkness way too often, hopelessly seeking relief in dreams but unsurprisingly finding none in the domain of their tormentor. If anything, all that waited for them there was more pain. Everything they wanted was to be finally free from this cursed existence, this… mockery of life. But it seems even that was too much to ask for, desoite the fact that they’d been promised an end long ago now. The Pure Vessel was never supposed to think, have feelings or desires. For its mind should be empty. They shouldn't want anything. And their fate was brutally reminding them of that.

Day by day, their body was burning up from the disease that held them tight in its grasp, making them wish for the end all the more. Memories began to fade as they fought to keep them from escaping. Without them… they would become just another husk animated by Her light. And it scared them.. Fear, alongside dejection, seemed to be an emotion that accompanied them constantly these days... They just needed one strong person to open this blasted Vault. Just one skilled knight to shatter the chains and put them out of their misery. But then the Radiance would be fully free. Nothing would be stopping Her from wiping the Hallownest off the pages of history. If only one of the lost siblings survived… empty like their father wanted. The true Hollow Knight. Just one, to successfully relieve them of their duty… Cruel. Something scolded the Vessel at these thoughts. They deserved what they'd gotten for their lies and had the audacity to wish for the same fate on someone else? Selfish. Cruel. Cruel! In despair (much stronger than sadness they knew already...), the Hollow Knight let themself slip away again, unable to argue with the laughter of the Goddess.

Like father, like son!

They had no wish to face the Radiance again so soon but their weariness took the better of them. Maybe this time She will have mercy on them and fulfill Her end of the bargain? Who knows? Soon they found out it unsurprisingly was not going ot be the case. However… when they left their infested shell behind to drift through the Realm of Dreams something has changed. Everything around was shaped differently. In this dream, they stood tall and proud, they were free and the scorching heat of the disease no longer troubled them. Memories returned in full with the moment they opened their black eyes. The pure nail rested in their hands - yes, hands! - its sharp tip on the ground at their feet as they started forward at nothing in particular. Like they had many times in the White Palace. What an odd dream… everything was dark and grey, chains swung from the sky around but never touched them and the inky smoke of Void drifted around. Just to make sure, they flex the fingers of their right hand. It responds as it should but it's.. numb. They have no feeling in the offending appendage. As though - bitter laughter bubbles up in their chest but never comes to be - it wasn't truly there. Was this another form of torture? Was the Radiance tormenting them again by showing them what they could've been but will never be? Their armor was beautiful and silver, glinting in the pale light of white sigils surrounding the strange arena they found themself in. As enchanting as the dream was, it caused them only further misery. Now they began to understand those who considered the Nightmare King the good-aligned deity and not the Radiance. Dreams cause disappointment with the reality - because it could be just like in this dream - while nightmares allow one find comfort and appreciate the world as it is.. A soft pitter patter of small feet behind them was all they needed to snap. Had She conjured an illusion of their baby sister running around them and bouncing in place, pleading to be picked up, as well?

Enough!

The Hollow Knight jammed their nail further into the ground in frighteningly unfamiliar fury - anger but... stronger, more violent somehow - as their armor started to give out underneath the pressure of seething Void before shattering into tiny pieces, leaving them only in their plain light-grey cloak. If She wanted them to cast off their hollow mask then congratulations, because She just managed to royally piss them off. Even that day when they saw three ethereal nails protruding from their father's chest as he fought for life bleeding out on the ground after Xero attacked him in disease-induced insanity they weren't this mad at the Goddess. And before they never thought it even possible. Whipping around angrily, ready to face the doppelganger of tiny Hornet, they intended to end this foul dream. I won't have the strength to cut her down. A small voice whispered. Illusion or not, they wouldn't have it in them to harm their little sister. Still, they were ready to face down whatever the Radiance wanted to throw at them. But what they saw instead made them freeze for a moment in shock and horror. Nothing could've prepared them for what waited behind them. As unmoving as always, their face didn't show the fear that paralyzed them. Fear just like any other but much more intense. Crippling. Petrifying. Horror.

Before them, standing no taller than their kneecap, stood… not Hornet. Worse still, someone they never thought they'd be seeing again as long as they still draw breath. Small, lithe and dressed in a ragged cloak.. A memory flashed before their eyes, a pale face gawking at them and silently crying for help.. None other than their lost twin. Just like the day they left the poor child to die in the Abyss, staring up at them with their large, empty eyes from the white shell with slim horns sporting tiny notches at their ends. And in those hollow eyes, there was no hatred, no accusation, no sadness, nothing.. aside from a small spark of something resembling surprised fondness. As though they were.. happy to see the older twin. Through the link of the Void, the Hollow Knight heard a small voice reach out to them. No, not a voice. more like.. a thought or an emotion shaped into a single word that struck them like a nail to the gut.

Sibling!

No, this can't be.. this isn't true! Their twin is dead! Resting on the bottom of the Abyss with all the shattered shells of other siblings. Does Her depravity know no bounds? They will not let the Radiance toy with them like that! Throwing their head back, the Hollow Knight wished to scream out their hatred into the darkened skies but… no sound leaves their throat. No voice...  As it was meant to be. No matter. It changes nothing. They barely paid any mind to a mysterious figure in a brass mask watching them from a gilded throne with curiosity and reverence as they lunged at the ghost of their sibling with cold rage and fiery determination. And to their surprise, they felt.. strong. Just like they used to before their imprisonment and absorbing the Old Light. And what was even odder, the fake twin easily avoided their attack by dissolving into a shadowy form that passed through their body without any resistance like icy cold air. Its cool brush unexpectedly turned into a sharp bite and to Hollow Knight’s surprise, once they looked down on themself they discovered that a shallow cut suddenly appeared on their side, dripping small amount of Void. Strange..

Unimportant. This was but a scratch, barely visible. Still, rather strange... Not letting it throw them off, the Pure Vessel immediately leaped into the air only to descend onto the twin's head and slam their nail into the ground, focusing to summon Soul Pillars and impale the little one. With no luck. The child unfolded six, glowing wings - just like the ones father had on his back, they noticed glumly - just in time to move out of the way of the pale blades. They followed up the narrow dodge by swinging their tiny, pure nail - a rare, fine weapon - at the older sibling's face. The blade cracked loudly against their shell, knocking stars into their vision for a moment. The Hollow Knight recoiled, both in pain from the strike and in shock from how… real it felt.

The Radiance is a master of weaving Dreams but something was not right. Even the most realistic dreams cannot feel so true. Vision should be more blurry, their senses duller.. but they weren't. Besides, a strike this hard definitely should've slapped them awake without issue. Yet, here they still were. But it's not like they had time to ponder over it. They were in the middle of a duel, for Wyrm's sake. Gathering their bearings, the Pure Vessel let their battle instincts take over. Writhing shadows consumed them and reformed their body on the other end of what they with all certainty could call an arena and extended their numb hand to shoot out a barrage of Soul Daggers at their opponent.

The fight went one like this for quite some time, the ghost managing to get hits on their sibling between their fast-paced, merciless attacks and spells. Small size worked on advantage for Hollow Knight's adversary who always somehow found a way to worm their way to their target without getting hit (minus that one time they failed to dodge one of the daggers and it slashed across their shoulder). At least until the Vessel has had enough of this little game. Intending to surprise the illusion of their twin, the Hollow Knight arched their back and released a pair of thrashing Void Tendrils from their own chest and finally knocked the little vessel down, leaving them stunned for a moment. Giving them no room to breathe, they followed up with a triple slash of their long nail and whacked the unfortunate child to the side before pouncing on them and pinning them down with their free hand.

No more trickery. This ends here and now. But… even though they were eager to shatter the cruel illusion, the Vessel had to admit that this fight made them feel… alive. For the first time in forever since the time stopped flowing for them. It was kind of sad to end this already. Why would the Radiance entertain me with a battle? But something in the back of their head was compelling them to carry on. Fully prepared to stab the nail down into the tiny body squirming in their hold, the Hollow Knight raised their weapon when suddenly… they heard clapping. Blinking down befuddled, they realised it was the child clapping their small, nubby hands, oblivious to the fact that Void was now seeping through a crack in their mask and from a slash across their chest, and that they were about to die. Congratulating them?

Sibling won! Sibling is still so strong!

Words sent through the Void said. If the Hollow Knight didn't know any better, they'd think the miniature twin seemed.. impressed. Were they actually impressed? What is going on? Focusing on the weak bond between the two of them, the Hollow Knight squinted. There was something… familiar about the presence of the tiny vessel and by no means was it the sense of closure they shared long ago. No, it was something else. Beating within their heart, familiar, yet foreign at the same time. It almost felt like the presence of the Pale King but.. darker. It felt like... home. Is that…? Slowly, the Hollow Knight let a small glimmer of hope rekindle in their broken heart. Believing that this might not be an illusion. But… what was it in that case? What does this mean? Their twin lives? How…?

Will come back! Help sibling! Just a little longer...

They chirped happily through the connection between their minds before some unseen power forced the Hollow Knight's hand down and brought the pure nail straight through their small heart, silencing it in an instant. Dream particles erupted from their shattered body and the Hollow Knight suddenly found themself back in the Egg. In chains, rotten through and absolutely flabbergasted. Severe confusion fused into one emotion with surprise. Whatever happened, it snapped them back to reality. To cold, rough bonds, to the burning Infection tearing its ruthless claws into their insides.. And for just a short moment, they felt their head clear out. Only one question remained. What was that supposed to mean? Whatever that was.. Their questions were aggressively halted by a jolt of pain and a mist clouding their senses.

Ever since this strange dream, the Radiance started to force Her will onto the Hollow Knight much more brutally, trying to keep them Her pawn - though they initially weren’t sure why - causing them so much pain it more than once made them pass out. But even still, the Vessel and the Radiance were one. They felt something in Her they hadn't before. And it was nothing different than straight out fear in its purest form. She was afraid. A Goddess. What could She possibly be afraid of? The little sibling. Something told them when the memory of the darkness pulsing within the small vessel's chest came to mind. Slowly, they began to understand. She was attempting to keep them as far away from that dream as possible as this one seemed to be out of Her direct control.. And soon, the Hollow Knight was about to realise they'd never been more right in their life before.

In spite of Her efforts, they returned to the arena again. Greeted by the sight of their twin just like the first time. And an unexplainable force made them fight the child. It ended as expected when the ghost fell yet again after a stray Soul Dagger cracked their shell apart. And again, impaled on a Soul Pillar. And again, caught in the area of an exploding Focus spell, after that. But they never gave up. And each time this dream repeated, the more apparent Radiance's apprehension was becoming. As broken and tortured as they were, the Hollow Knight found some small semblance of hope rising from the depths of their despair again. Resurrected by the supposedly dead twin sibling. Killing them over and over again brought the Vessel no joy but whatever this dream was, whatever the tiny voidling was attempting to do, it scared the life out of the Goddess of Dreams Herself, filling the Hollow Knight with wicked satisfaction. A pleasant feeling one feels after accomplishing some great feat or watching something... well, satisfying happen. Oh, how they wished to live to see Her get what's coming to her.. For the first time in what felt like forever, the Hollow Knight felt the urge to smile (metaphorically, as their face cannot really express much), even through the pain She was inflicting on them. Soon, they found themself looking forward to battling their twin again.

With each time the ghost challenged the Pure Vessel to a fight, they were getting stronger, faster, more cunning. And when a decisive strike of a small nail finally brought them down to their knees the Hollow Knight couldn't help the alien feeling of gentle warmth welling up in their chest, the overwhelming… joy. Was this what their father felt when they took on all of the Five Knights at the same time and won? Was this.. pride? Even leaking Void from every possible body part and in pain (different from the disease, more familiar and somewhat comforting), they wished to mentally smile at their tiny counterpart but never had a chance as ray of blinding light - dreadfully familiar bright light - descended on the twin siblings and a cry of outrage echoed through the air, making both of them look up. A brutal yank brought the Hollow Knight back into their plagued body but… something was different. No force was ripping their sentience out from their grasp. The Radiance, while present in their head, paid them no mind as Her overwhelming fury filled every fiber of their being, sending ripples through the Infection clinging to them. What is happening?

It continued for a couple more minutes before an excruciating pain shot through the Hollow Knight without a single warning as a soul rending screech of the Dream Goddess made their head feel like it was about to explode. They seized and trembled when the horrid sensation did not cease. Their heart began to hammer in their chest quickly and unevenly, sometimes skipping a beat until they twisted in their bindings and released a cry of agony. But it wasn't their voice. They lacked one of their own after all. It was the Radiance. All their entrails felt as though they were set on fire or something was tearing them apart from the inside. In fear and confusion, the Vessel trashed about, Infection pouring freely from their opened mouth and eyes but they could sense some feelings that weren't theirs. Rage. Denial. Terror. Through the burning light filling up the entirety of their vision they saw Her figure writhing amidst a foreign darkness invading Her domain. Just there, at the peak of this darkness - as if the steadied, yet still ravenous Abyssal Sea rose up to challenge its nemesis - stood the familiar presence of the Hollow Knight's twin. And She was undoubtedly completely and absolutely terrified.

But the satisfaction coming from this fear did not ease in pain or the gurgling coughs ejecting the pus from their throat. The Hollow Knight felt as though their head was being split in two as the Infection was aggressively beating against the walls of their weak body, violently peeling itself off their organs and simultaneously desperately trying to keep itself rooted inside. A strained wheeze that escaped them sounded like a death rattle of an asthmatic Wyrm. Fitting, considering their origins.. It was much less funny when taking into account the fact that they couldn't breathe. They screamed alongside the Radiance, desperately gulping down every, even the smallest gasp of air they could. Another shriek tore through them and the bulging tumors on their chest abruptly ruptured, as did the ones on the stump of their right arm, spilling the disgusting, rotten fluids every which way. Infection was sizzling and thrashing about with a mind of its own until it started to evaporate in the clouds of sticky, rapidly fading smoke.

It takes a lot to bring a seasoned warrior to the point of crying out of pain but this was more than enough. Before, the Infection existed mostly in "agreement" with its host but now the Vessel felt as though they had ingested a bucket of potent acid. Tears - their normal, Void tears - started to flow uncontrollably as they shivered in spasms. The Hollow Knight didn't know how long this ordeal lasted so far but even half dazed by the pain they knew one thing. They were dying without a doubt. And the Infection inside was dying with them. Despite the dark thoughts inhabiting their broken mind as of late, ones whispering of sweet, cold claws of death, they were scared. Their twin, one whom they presumed dead for so long came back in a desperate attempt to help them, even in a dream. They couldn't let their efforts be for naught and die just like that! Praying to all Gods of Hallownest for strength, the Vessel drew another struggling breath that lined their lungs with miniscule needles and pins.

Help... Someone... anyone...

And then suddenly… the screaming stopped. The next thing the Hollow Knight knew was that the light was gone from their sight, replaced by blackness. Seconds later, or maybe longer, they couldn't say for certain, a heavy impact brought the scraps of consciousness back to them. At first, they were sure they'd been struck but in truth it was their form limply hitting the floor when they crumpled in a heap like a puppet when one cuts the strings. The stone tiles were underneath their cheek, the hold of chains absent. Burning pain remained but it was… different somehow. It wasn't the searing of the Old Light but the injuries it left behind. Even with their mind swirling like a carousel, the Hollow Knight realised it felt.. clear. Clearer than it has in ages. No alien presence lingers in the depths of their psyche. Still, the splitting headache wasn't making the thoughts easier to formulate. Do not think. It will be easier this way.

Although the possibility of receiving an answer sacares them, the Hollow Knight has to make sure. They hesitantly search through their own mind and quietly call.

Old Light?

Nothing. Silence.

Are you still there..?

No response. Dead quiet. Darkness. No internal fire, no force pressing against the remnants of their resolve and forcing its will upon them. No wisps dancing around in their vision, only dots of black and sparks of white caused by the pain. In their heaving chest, their black heart skips a beat. Could it be? Hesitantly, the Hollow Knight tries to move, to lift their arm. The appendage raises according to their will, trembling violently and falling to the floor not even a second later but there's nothing aside from their exhaustion holding them back or setting their entire system ablaze. It has to be. The Infection left. As hard to believe as it is… the Radiance.. She's gone. They can't feel Her anymore. The Darkness took over. Her light has been extinguished, at long last. In their mind they can feel a large hole, an empty space where She used to reside but this emptiness feels... good.

Happy. No, that's not the right word to call the emotion that assaults them, making them want to scream and weep, and laugh out loud all at the same time while being able to do only the second part. Struggling to form a forbidden thought, fighting the still present fever, they search for the right name for this one. Ecstatic? Yeah, that feels more like it.. However, the Hollow Knight doesn't spare time to rejoice. If they do they soon too will be gone.

Clenching their jaws, the mangled Vessel attempts to lift themself on their remaining arm but the weakened appendage gives out underneath their meager weight as though it was made of jelly. Unfortunately, their armor wasn't making the whole thing easier. The fall leaves them disoriented and stunned for a moment until they feel something wet pooling beneath their face. Forcing their head, which seems to weigh far too much, as though it was made out of lead, to turn, they see black. Void. Void spilling from their wounds and their right eye where their shell had cracked. Not the pus but pure Void. As black as it could ever be. It was… both comforting in color and disconcerting in amount. Losing that much life essence would kill a normal bug at least six times over. They needed to try something different before their Shade slips free from its confines to rejoin the Abyssal Sea. Focusing on a Healing spell was out of question with how drained of energy they were. Attempts to pull themself back to their knees also yield no results aside from agonizing stabs through the torn chitin on their chest where the cysts once were and left deep, bleeding holes after they'd bursted. Not all tumors were gone just yet. Some were still there, throbbing and scorching them with the now apparently caustic fluids.

Enough with this cursed plague! Without care for their own wellbeing, only wanting the Infection finally OUT, the Hollow Knight makes their conscious decision, rolls slightly to the side to have a more or less clear view and focuses their anger on the remaining cysts.. Their shivering hand wanders over to the last cluster of Infection still anchored to their body and hovers there for a single beat.. It's better to get this done with before they change their mind. In one swift motion, sharp tips of their claws sink into their own flesh. One drag is enough to tear deep gashes in the mutated membrane. The pustules split open with a sensation not dissimilar to being ran through with a white hot iron bar. The Hollow Knight gasps in pain, with a pang of worry realising that their breathing remained loud, ragged and unsettling. No wonder. After all this, most of their organs were likely severely damaged if not ceased to function at all. Orange liquid quickly drains from the self-inflicted wounds before being replaced by Void. It wasn't one of their finest moments, it hurt like hell but they didn't want this blasted stuff inside of them for a single second longer. Now, they were left still stuck splayed out on the floor and bleeding out at an alarming rate. They don't have much time left. Looking around, noting the lack of Infected veins and bubbles, they let their eyes linger on their old, trusty nail. If that doesn't work, then nothing will.

Scraping their head through the dust that accumulated on the floor throughout years, the Hollow Knight crawls to their discarded weapon, leaving a trail of quickly dissipating Void in their wake, and heaves themself up to get a hold of the hilt. Any second, they feared the chains would shoot out to trap them again but no such thing happened. Only two fo the longer sections remained attached to their shoulder pads and were dragging behind them. The Infection was eradicated. The purpose of the Temple fulfilled. As was theirs. Their hand trembles but otherwise holds fast as they pull up onto their knees, still wheezing dreadfully. For so long, the Hollow Knight ceaselessly begged all Higher Beings for the blessing of death, wishing their nail was in their reach so that they could end their own misery. Now… here it was in their grasp. Waiting, taunting. All it takes is one stab. Just one little push… You failed. Disappointment. Pick it up, turn the tip towards their already open chest and drive the blade through their heart. No one would miss a failure like you. The Vessel's hand tightens around the nail. It would be so easy… Just a second and it will be over. You're already as good as dead. Their task had come to an end. There's nothing more for them here. Do it!

Slowly, the Hollow Knight forces themself to stand on their weak and shaky legs, using their unkempt weapon as a crutch instead. Too late for that now. If they have to die, they'd rather do so out in the open. Everywhere but in this grave. All limbs hurt. The pain is insufferable… Do not feel.. They breathe raggedly, letting the sharp throbbing subside. Can they even make it to the outside world? What if the Dreamer Seals linger still? Do not think… No thoughts. Pick a destination. The entrance to the Egg. Don't ponder over it. Endure.

First steps come with difficulty - they hadn't walked in years and their legs feel as though the Infection has hollowed them out - they stumble and fall to their knees more than once but never give up. They refused to give up ever again. Eventually, each next step becomes easier as they drag their husk of a crippled body towards the doorway - the chains singing their grim song against the floor behind them - where their father disappeared all those years ago. Even now, after all the suffering they'd endured, the Hollow Knight hoped the Pale King is still out there somewhere. If so then the chances are once he realises the Radiance is no more, he will return to reclaim his Kingdom without the threat of the Infection hanging grimly over his head. And when that day comes, they will meet again. And after that, they will find mother too. And apologise for their defeat. Maybe they will even grant the Hollow Knight the forgiveness they don't deserve? Yes, that sounds good… If they live up to this moment, that is.. If not, then maybe their parents will at least lay their body to rest? Still, the thought of their father being dead and gone forever nearly makes them give in and fall again, unwilling to keep pushing forward. No. The Pale King is a God. It's not a trivial task to kill a Higher Being. They know it. He has to be alive. Doesn't he? Clinging to this tiny ray of hope, the Hollow Knight staggers through the dark corridor of the Temple, heading towards the light at the end where the (thank Wyrm!) opened door awaits.

A wave of stale air smelling of dirt crashes over them at the entrance and almost makes them cry with relief. No more sweet stench of Her plague. This is really happening.. Begging their weak body to hold on just a wee bit longer, they push towards their freedom. Though, no matter how hard they tried, their armor was slowing them down and making moving around difficult. In an attempt to spare the rapidly diminishing reserves of their strength, the Hollow Knight uses their claws to slash through the straps holding their shoulder pads in place they clumsily fight to unclip their ruined breastplate. With how it was bent out torn open and completely eaten through by the acidic Infection, it comes off without much difficulty and soon each armor piece hits the floor with a series of metallic clangs.

To be honest, the Vessel had no delusions they would survive this. Only one look at the ruptured chitin on their chest told them everything. After tearing the last pustules open they could've sworn for a moment they'd seen their heart trembling inside but it might as well have been a hallucination. In any case, they were too severely injured to pull through without aid and considering the sorry state of Hallownest, that is not happening. Even if they could call for help, they doubt anyone would heed their desperate pleas. Disoriented by the disappearance of the Infection and scared, any survivors, who aren't in equally as sorry state as them, are likely to head in the opposite direction. Besides, they couldn't imagine anyone would dare to touch the disgusting mess of a broken being they are now. At least… they will die happy, out in the open, gazing out at their homeland. Knowing it is safe and that they have their twin to thank for it. And that the ghost of their mistakes doesn't hold a grudge for the wrong they'd done.

A glimpse of red. A moving figure, just outside. Some strange sense of familiarity lights up a spark in the Hollow Knight's mind. Just a few more steps… After what felt like an eternity, the hero of Hallownest emerges from the Black Egg that was their and Her prison for so long and comes face to face with the shadow of their past. The Weaver clad in red dress took on a defensive stance and drew a needle once they leaned heavily against their nail, trying to steady their breathing. Red dress.. needle… strands of silk angrily lashing behind.. mask as pale as the King's.. Far more adult than they remember but still familiar. It cannot be.

It cannot be that for once since this madness had begun, the Hollow Knight has a stroke of good luck. Their tired eyes land on the one they remember as a small, temperamental girl. The spiderling princess of Deepnest. Even though the passage of time changed her, there can be no mistake. It was her. Their sister. Hornet… No longer a girl, but a young adult. How long has it truly been? And there was utter shock painted across her face once she realised that she's looking at her long lost, stoic sibling who was taken from her when she was a child. No aggressive glow in their eyes. Only soothing black, silently asking for help. What little strength they had left finally abandons them as they fall over face first again, smiling to themself inwardly. What a happy coincidence. Not only will death claim them free and at peace but in the presence of their beloved baby sister. Despite what they'd been expecting, they don't hit the floor. Instead, their body collapsed straight into Hornet's arms. How she didn't keel over underneath the weight of their much larger form was a mystery.

A firm grip on their shoulders, a pair of strong hands hardened by years of combat cautiously lower them to the kneeling position as a concerned Hornet fills their entire vision. How similar to their father she is… The same hands cup their face, just like Her wings had before (don't think about it, don't panic, it's just Hornet! They reprimanded themself when they begin to tremble), to make them look ta her. Clearly, she's saying something to them in a very frantic non-Hornet-like fashion but they can no longer hear. Her fingers gently caress the Hollow Knight's forehead, deliberately avoiding the crack in their shell and the spilling Void that could potentially kill her as the other hand rests on the underside of their mask. Such a gentle, loving gesture.. unfamiliar yet so… comforting… Each touch sends a delighted tremor through Hollow Knight's succumbing body. They didn't know one could be missing something that was never received in the first place. Yet, here they are. Yes.. yes, now they are ready. They are ready to go.. Were it not for Hornet, they wouldn't have managed to keep their head up. When they cough and wheeze, she starts speaking again. And this time bits and pieces do get through to the Hollow Knight.

"...-be alright-... -...ust hold on…!"

Weakly, the Vessel nuzzles their face into her touch as they heave in attempts to take another breath. Maybe the Hollow Knight was ready to face death but it doesn't mean they weren't afraid of it. They truly want to reassure Hornet that all will indeed be alright. But they can't. It's terribly cold out here… Flashes of images, glimpses of faces pass through their mind. Every bug they'd known well and those they met only once as well. As colorless and empty as their life had been, it was.. good. They lived a good life...

Then, suddenly, it's not Hornet they're looking at anymore. A luminous form of a small bug with multiple sleek horns shaping into a crown on the top of his head. The Pale King stands there with an aghast expression and holds their heavy head in his blackened hands making his child stare in bewilderment. He looked so real! But it cannot be him.. The feverish mind of he Vessel doesn't seem to care though. Am I dead already...? Black eyes in the pale face of their father watch the dying Hollow Knight with anguish gleaming in them. He’d never looked at them like this.. To hell with their Pure Vessel facade, they’re dying anyway... What does it matter at this point? An uncontrollable shiver makes them seize in pain rippling through their whole body as they swallow the black liquid filling their mouth and they lift their shaking hand to surprisingly firmly grasp the front of Pale King’s robes to keep him here just a little longer. The fabric seems.. strange to the touch...

Father, don't leave..

They want to call what they wished to years ago when they didn't have the courage to but.. No voice to cry suffering. The darkness is upon them and there's nothing in sight that could stop it. It was a miracle they lived long enough to crawl out of the Temple. If they were a normal bug so heavily Infected, they wouldn't have gotten up from where they'd fallen at all. Their last regret was that after all this, they will leave their twin behind. Again. And do so without so much as a single "thank you" for everything they'd done. But Gods... they were so tired.. Leaning forward the Hollow Knight rests their head on their father’s shoulder, possibly ruining the robe in the process with the Void leaking from their shell. Even if it was just the figment of their imagination, they didn’t care. To die peacefully, whether it be in the arms of Hornet or his father, was more than they could ask for or ever deserve. They breathe out with relief and for the first time in an eternity slip away into the embrace of sleep without fear in their heart, never expecting to wake up again.

Please, forgive me... All of you...

To their utter astonishment… they do. First thing they register is warmth. Not the burning fire of the disease tearing at their every nerve. A soft, comforting warmth filling up their entire being. Air around is hot and humid. Without opening their eyes, the Hollow Knight draws a loud breath that sounds kind of like a suffocating Vengefly. Strangely enough, the dense air does not hurt their damaged lungs. Quite the opposite. It spreads around their respiratory system like a balm, easing the burning left by Her plague. So long… so long since they felt any sort of something pleasant.. They could stay like this in the warmth forever and everything else can shove off with the odd, stinging pressure in their belly taking the lead. If only they could breathe easier… It takes barely a split of a second after their sudden wheeze for a pair of hands to rest on the sides of their head to steady it.

"No, no, don't you dare! Hornet's gonna tear my face off if you die!"

No memory of a name comes to mind with this male voice that sounds as though it was coming from behind a glass wall. As much as they want to remain inert, the Hollow Knight forces their eyes to pry open, wincing inwardly at the bright white glow of Soul surrounding everything, emanating from the… water they're in? A hot spring? Absent-mindedly noting they cannot see with their right eye as something was draped over it, the Hollow Knight looks up at… exactly, who? Looming over them upside down and still holding their head, was a hooded warrior with big white eyes. An ant most likely, judging by features. The unfamiliarity of the face made Hollow Knight tense in agitation but their limbs were unresponsive and aching, refusing to move. The stranger firmly held their head still even as they began to stir.

"Easy there. Not gonna hurt you. I'm a friend."

A friend? The no-longer-Sealed Vessel isn't sure what this means but they assume it's a good thing. The Pale King more than once called either one of the Five, or the future Dreamers (except for Herrah as she was the mother of his daughter) a "friend" with fondness in his voice when in good mood. Besides, if this ant really knows Hornet.. If they were being honest, the Hollow Knight was much too spent to feel threatened or try to analyse the situation to determine whether the ant does pose any threat or not. They ceased their struggling to continue wheezing heavily, fighting for air. Seems like it's not going away anytime soon.. With their every breath, the warrior's frown was deepening.

"No clue what battered you like that but I don't wanna meet it."

And you won't… The Hollow Knight thinks to themself with a sense of relief washing over them. She really is gone. They weren't sure what their twin did and how but they'd done it. No more Infection. No more pain. No more struggle.. A silent hope that they might have gotten a second chance makes them slump in the warm water working on their injuries. This warmth causes them to grow awfully sleepy, maybe they really did lose too much "blood" and were actually dying, but the stranger above them was determined to keep them in the waking world.

"For the love of- No! Stay with me! Hornet will kill me if you don't!"

Hornet.. The sound of her name somewhat keeps them from passing out. She must've been the one to bring them here. Then... it can’t have been their father they were seeing earlier... Just like they thought, their imagination was merely playing tricks on them, reshaping Hornet’s already similar features into those of the Pale Wyrm, and all this time it was her. Where did she go? Hornet wouldn't leave without a good reason… Speaking of which-..

TISO! Back the fuck off!"

Familiar, yet far more mature voice of Hollow Knight's younger sister almost brings small rocks raining down from the ceiling, making the ant in question jump away from them. As unexpected as her arrival is, it brings the Vessel peace and a sense of security.

"Okay, WOW! First you literally drag me down here by my antennae and now you yell at me for actually helping? Rude."

"May I remind you you owe me a favor? Now shut up and move."

"Geez, calm down princess! Your buddy was just breathing very loudly, I legitimately thought they're choking or something."

"I still don't trust you."

"Then why the FUCK-...?!"

As if to prove Tiso's point, the Hollow Knight descended into a fit of rattling coughs when they tried to move to see their sister, unintentionally making the strain in their stomach worse, proceeding to wheeze horribly afterwards. The Infection took a lot out of them… The arguing duo ceased in an instant (though the Hollow Knight could've sworn they felt the energy of "didn't I tell you" radiating off of the smug ant). Hornet didn't wait before walking into the hot spring and helping her older sibling sit up. Everything protests at the movement, especially their chest - now, like the stump of their arm, bound in bandages made of Weaver silk - but they don't stop her. They close their eyes as she does, breathing deeply until the painful wheezes slowly turn into nearly soundless huffs. Still, they feel and hear their breath eerily whistling in their lungs.

"That's it, keep breathing. It'll be alright. Here. This should help."

Out of a hidden pocket in her red dress she brandishes a bottle filled with gently glowing blue liquid. Lifeblood. So that's what she'd gone for.. The Hollow Knight blinks at the vial she holds, waiting for permission out of habit. They aren't quite sure if there is a point to keep the play up, especially before Hornet but… old habits die hard. Doing things without being prompted still felt... weird and uncomfortable. It causes a moment of awkward silence before Hornet frowns, seemingly catching a wind of what's going on, and brings the bottle closer to them.

"Take it. Drink."

In a beat the Hollow Knight seems to spring back to life and follows her instructions without any signs of hesitation. They down the blue concoction, bitter and by no means savory but they don't mind it. One, they aren't used to showing discomfort, two, they'd take the bitter over sweet and rotten any day. In comparison to the Infection, the Lifeblood was the best thing they'd tasted in a while. And true enough, the blue liquid works its magic quite quickly. The sharp throbbing of their wounds that the spring's power reduced to a bearable ache seemed to ease even more and some part of their strength returned to them. Honestly, they never understood why their father was so skeptical and untrusting towards the Lifeblood… On the other hand though, the Hollow Knight hangs their head low and grasps at their chest when they suddenly begin to feel awfully sick again.

"Hollow, are you-...?"

She starts but they silence her by lifting up their remaining hand when the familiar, sweetness dangerously quickly wells up in their throat. Oh no.. On an instinct, the Hollow Knight twists around and lurches forward, heaving out the contents of their stomach onto the cave floor. An unbelievably large amount of vibrant orange fluid mixed with freshly consumed Lifeblood and a little bit of Void makes its way out of the inside of their body, drawing disgusted groans from both witnesses. Well... so much for the Lifeblood treatment...

"EUGH! How the hell did all that stuff even fit inside this guy?!"

Mildly horrified Tiso asked the question into the air as Hornet, equally disturbed, didn't seem too eager to answer. The Hollow Knight was, thankfully, done in seconds and breathed out with relief once the tension left their stomach as the - hopefully - last traces of the Infection were expelled from their system. That feels so much better… As gross as the sticky substance was, the Hollow Knight found strange joy in watching the color fade into dull brown and eventually black before evaporating once and for all. Another proof. Though, the unpleasant aftertaste still lingered..

Sh-shit, I'm about to throw up too..."

With his hand over his mouth, Tiso quickly runs out of the cavern after the display and the smell left his own stomach very upset. The Hollow Knight isn't all that surprised. No one's going to try and convince the poor ant that what has just transpired wasn't thoroughly disgusting. Hornet merely rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her weakened sibling.

"How do you feel? Are you okay now?"

Never mind all the wounds which will surely leave awful scars. Never mind the dizziness that will eventually pass. Never mind the no longer existing right arm. The Hollow Knight looked Hornet straight in the eye but remained stone still, without a clue how to say it without words. Despite all the pain and the memories of suffering still fresh in their mind, they have never felt like this before. No more waking nightmares. No more Infection. No more Her. No more chains and bindings. Freedom. Peace. Safety. They are going to live to see another day and if the luck wishes to be on their side again, they will reunite with their father, mother and their sibling. Here they are, no threat in sight, beside their baby sister… "Okay" fails to describe one third of it.

"Hollow?"

Again, she called them this, trying to coax a response from the stiff voidling. And to be honest, it felt… nice. It was no longer the title mocking their existence but a sense of familiarity in it was putting the Vessel at ease. There's no need to pretend in front of Hornet. Who were they kidding, she certainly knew from the very beginning. And now she spoke this word as though it was a name like any other. The Hollow Knight never had a name. Though, they remember the Pale King accidentally calling them like this for short a couple times. Another fond memory. Yes. Yes, they like it that way.. They like that very much.

At Hornet's impatient and concerned prodding, Hollow bowed their much larger head until theirs and their sister's horns connected with an empty clunk. She seemed rather… shocked to say the least, judging by the look on her face. But fortunately the message was clear.

"You're ah... welcome, I guess.."

In response they only stared at her until she finally took a seat on the edge of the pool of healing water with her legs submerged. Hollow never had many interactions with people aside from following commands and watching their affairs from the side lines. Yet, there were moments, like after a particularly bad training session, when they received a gentle touch, most often from their mother. Root had a natural affinity to heal and she couldn't help but give into her motherly instincts when she saw her child hurting. Unfortunately, only until the young Pure Vessel managed to hone their skills to Focus Soul into healing injuries. And not so long ago Hornet was lightly stroking their head as they were knocking on death's door in her arms. Is this alright to ask her to do it again?

Uncertain, Hollow rested their heavy head beside where she sat, watching her out of the corner of their uncovered eye, the other wrapped up in Void-stained silk. Their memories of Hornet seemed so distant… The little girl with definitely too large amounts of energy stored within her tiny body was all over the Palace whenever she visited and she always found ways to sneak away to bother them. Not that they minded it. When Hollow found out the spiderling is their half sister from another mother, they took it as a point of honor to watch over her whenever they could, glad every time their father told them to do so. As cold and distant as he was, Hollow knew they loved their father, they just didn't know how to name this emotion yet. To feel safe and happy, to feel one would do anything for the person subjected to it.. With Hornet it felt… different. While they - metaphorically, of course - looked up to the Pale King, respected him and never doubted his words, every time Hornet was in sight they felt the same joyous warmth that came from the presence of either of their parents but laced with a protective instinct. They would follow the princess of Deepnest to hell and back if she asked them to and make sure she returns unscathed. Turns out, it is her who has to keep watch over them. How the tides have turned…

A small, lively child she always was, Hornet feared nothing and never backed out from any challenge. She even had a phase for a couple of months in the past when she declared she will kill the Infection for her dad on her own and it left the poor King utterly stressed out and terrified, ready to launch himself behind his cocky daughter at any moment so that Herrah doesn't gut him for being a "sorry excuse of a parent who can't even do his job properly". Memories like this bring the invisible smile to their face... Hollow couldn't imagine she would change much as she grew up. But it seems they still don't know their sister all that well.. With barely any noticeable hesitation she surprised her older sibling by lifting their head to her lap.

"I never thought I'd see you again. Let alone alive.."

She said more to herself than to anyone else as she rested her hand between their horns like they used to do to her when she was little. Uninfected. This word never left her mouth, as though saying it out loud would break the spell, but Hollow somehow knew that's what she meant. Nuzzled into the soft, albeit a bit worn dress and warmed by the magical waters of the hot spring, Hollow found a wave of unimaginable exhaustion, coming from years of being locked away with the Goddess of Dreams tormenting them, finally crashing over their broken body. After everything they've been through, they wanted and deserved to finally sleep in peace. But while before they were sure they were falling asleep never to return to the land of the living again and were okay with it, now some small, seemingly insignificant vestiges of fear lingered in the back of their psyche. They were plainly afraid of falling asleep. Hollow never wanted to have to stand before the Radiance ever again. However, this fear melted away with gentle strokes of Hornet's hand on their shell and the other one rubbing circles into their back to put them at ease the moment she noticed them fighting with their weariness.

"Hey, it's okay. She will never hurt you again."

Hollow knew this. They'd felt the Radiance at her strongest fall, even though they never thought it possible. Seems like the word "impossible" does not exist in their twin's dictionary.. But still, the fear was always there. What if I was wrong? What if this is just another hallucination? Those what ifs scared them all the same no matter what they'd seen and lived through. They knew that it's finally over. But they had to hear someone else say it with certainty. To make them believe. And Hornet's stern but sympathetic voice along with her comforting touch did just that. Finding new strength in their sore limbs, Hollow clambered up a little further onto the shore but not out of the warm water to lay more comfortably with their head still resting on Hornet's lap, and awkwardly reached around her waist with their left arm to snuggle up even closer like a desperate child they never had a chance to be. They weren't sure if they're doing the "hug-thing" right but it worked nonetheless. It took the fear away, soothed the ache of their shattered soul. With utmost certainty, they knew this was an emotion they liked feeling now that no one is here to judge them. Maybe they were wrong. Perhaps there's still a reason to keep going? Hornet never ceased caressing them and soon, Hollow found themself calmly falling asleep on her thighs with the last words they heard before slipping into the blessedly dreamless sleep ringing in their ears like a lullaby, the long forgotten tune of a small music box that the White Lady was so fond of...

…You are safe…

Out from the winding tunnels of Crossroads and into a cavern housing the healing waters of the hot spring, a pitch black shadow slithers across the ground like a serpent towards two sleeping figures slumped against one another. The temperature dips noticeably as it creeps closer to the Protector of Hallownest and the Hollow Knight resting at the shore oblivious to any form of danger while the hooded ant - saved from certain death by Hornet herself under the insistence of the Pale Wanderer - slumbers beneath an opposite wall with his arms crossed not to intrude on this peaceful moment. The shadow's attention is focused on the pair of pale siblings however. It raises and collapses in on itself like a liquid given life as it silently crawls up to the sleeping duo.

Reaching their side, the shadow begins to rise up from the ground and rapidly swell in size. The shapeless substance forms into a massive body with four, clawed arms, a large head adorned with multiple ghostly horns and dark tendrils swaying lightly from the creature's back. It stands tall on two animalistic legs half obscured by an ethereal robe melding perfectly with its torso and looms over the siblings, casting no shadow. If anything, its body is so dark that the light seems to bend around it. Eight, brilliant white eyes open in a faceless head and blink slowly, one pair after another. The Abyssal horror, blacker than anything existing in this world, composed of Void in its purest form and shape, barely fits in this cave but doesn't seem to care. It watches both the Void born creature and the half-spider for a couple seconds before its numerous eyes crinkle in something resembling a smile.

. . . S a f e . . .

The Void rumbles satisfied. Carefully, the giant lays something beside them - a small, pale mask split in two - and begins to focus. In barely half a minute, the dark menace shrinks and loses its intimidating shape once more in favor of sliding into the cracked shell, reforming a tiny body in a dark grey cloak tattered from long travels. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, the Ghost of Hallownest picks up the other half of their mask and as the last bits of their true form compress within their broken head they lift the missing piece and without any effort mend the crack that used to run through the middle of their face, leaving but a faint scar behind. This form was way too small, they could feel the Void pressing against it from the inside uncomfortably but for now it will have to do. Though, they liked this body and were very used to it. Maybe they could just make it grow properly in the near future?

With that transformation done, the warmth returns to the cavern. Casually, Ghost shuffles closer to their last remaining siblings and - mindful of numerous recently healed wounds Hollow bears - cuddles against Hornet's side next to Hollow's arm, careful not to wake up either of their siblings in the process. Especially Hollow. They need their rest the most. Actually, it's new to see Hornet of all people peacefully sleeping with the Hollow Knight's head on her lap. All of the sudden she seemed far less scary than the little vessel found her during their first meeting in Greenpath, though that may have something to do with their newfound Godhood. With a quiet sigh, Ghost lets their eyes slip closed but doesn't fall asleep. Their Ascension, although it brought unthinkable power that let them tear apart the Goddess of Dreams, left them utterly spent. Rooting out the Infection was not an evening stroll... But they have no desire to sleep. Not yet. For now, they're content with listening to breaths and heartbeats of their siblings. After cutting their way through the entire Pantheon of Hallownest in order to save this land, to save their lost twin, they feel like they've earned this moment of respite. Woe be upon any who thinks otherwise.. Eventually however, even the God of Gods gives into their exhaustion and falls into a deep slumber beside their siblings, knowing both of them are safe. Hallownest is safe. They all are..

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

First try at drawing a proper background! Woo! Before you ask, I didn't give Ghost a shadow on purpose, I'm not that oblivious XD

[smallerinfinities]

mad woman (nessian)

a/n: In which Nesta copes and Feyre interjects

hello! again, new here ☺️ this kind of just...happened? the idea came upon me late talking with @harryandmolly​ idk anyways hope you enjoy! if you don’t like modern AUs then this probably isn’t for you, but if you’re into that sort of thing and all the warnings that go with it then I would love to hear what you think!

tw: angst, coping with death, sex work, language

original art by the incomparable charlie bowater

Things were great until they weren’t. 

Nesta Archeron had been engaged. She had a father who loved her and a sister she adored. Until the plane crash. Until a faulty navigational system sent her fiancé, her father, and her sister into the side of a mountain on the way to her destination wedding.

She had gone to Hybern early, to get settled and calm her nerves, to plan around the security that Feyre had hired so that Rhys could attend the wedding. Nesta had told her not to bother, Rhys could stay in Velaris for all she cared. She’d gone and set it all up anyway. But it had all exploded when Nesta got the call that her world had ended and all she had left was a sister she resented and a brother-in-law with too high a profile. She was a tragic headline. A fucking media circus. 

High Lord Rhysand’s sister-in-law left at the altar in tragic plane crash. 

The press camped outside her Velaris studio for weeks. They’d only left when she had thrown a maelstrom of empty glass bottles out of her windows at them. Empty because she’d come back to Velaris and crawled inside a whiskey bottle and stayed there. She might be more whiskey than person now. The days were passing at a rate she couldn’t gauge anymore. Had it been hours or days or months since she’d picked up the phone in the middle of placing name cards on tables in the reception hall? She didn’t particularly care. Everyone who mattered was dead and being drunk was better than counting the minutes since her future had evaporated. 

A knock sounded at the door. 

Nesta removed the eye mask she was wearing and squinted at her phone. 7:15 AM. She’d been up all night again, had just laid down to try and sleep. Who the fuck was at her door at this hour?

She knew but she opened the door anyway. 

Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court, was in the hallway looking worried. Well, Nesta assumed she was looking worried. She could only see Feyre’s furrowed eyebrows between the oversized sunglasses and the wide-brimmed sun hat. She had wrapped her red-gold hair, twin to Nesta’s own color, into a low chignon to hide it away from prying eyes. A disguise. Nesta snorted. Feyre Archeron could be noticed in this city by a blind man a hundred yards down a busy avenue. It was the way she carried herself, the easy confidence. No one could mistake her for anyone but their High Lady. 

“What do you want?” Nesta crossed her arms over her chest, blocking the view into her apartment.

“Well, to start, a little respect for the person who has been footing your liquor bill for the last eight months.” Her red lips were turned down at the corners, tight. She angled her head past Nesta’s shoulder and crinkled her nose, “God, I don’t even need to see in there to know what it must look like. I can smell it from here. And I can see you.” 

Nesta kept her face a mask of annoyance but considered how she must look. Compared to Feyre’s heavy cream sweater and perfectly tailored tan pants, anyone would look slovenly but Nesta knew she'd let herself go.

A while ago, she’d taken to wearing Tomas’ shirts to bed. Then eventually she wasn’t getting out of bed so it was all the time, changing only when she found the strength to shower. Today’s shirt—more like this week’s shirt if she was being honest with herself—was an old striped dress shirt, one Tomas had maybe worn twice with a suit. It now had several stains from whiskey and whatever takeout she had ordered last night. She couldn’t quite remember. Chinese? Greek? 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Her marriage was supposed to be one of convenience. They had been friends, had both gotten older and then tossed in the towel on dating. Tomas needed a cover for a lifestyle his parents forbade and Nesta...well Nesta wanted to be comfortable. Nesta wanted her sister to stop meddling and leave her alone. At least, she thought she did. 

But, no one had known. No one except Elain.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. 

Her hair hadn’t been washed in days, it was matted in some places, stuck to her face in others. She knew her eyes were hollow, sunken in and lacking that fire people saw when they looked at her. She’d been avoiding her own reflection for weeks, had even covered the mirror by the door. Months ago, apparently. Eight months. 

Had it really been that long? Had she really been moving from bottle to bottle, takeout container to takeout container, for eight whole months? She’d barely left the apartment, had lost her job, happy to exploit Feyre’s seemingly unending pity. Pity she guessed had run out. 

Today. 

She didn’t care about that either.

“Come all this way to chide me, dear sister?” Nesta curled her lips as she moved aside to let Feyre through. Might as well let her see. 

“Thank you.” Her sister breezed into the little sitting area and stopped dead.

Her eyes scanned the room, marking the recycling bin first, overflowing with empty glass bottles. All different labels. Whatever Nesta could find quickest. Then the kitchen counters, filled with boxes of crackers and empty ramen noodle packages, cans of tuna and an open jar of peanut butter, anything that could be quickly consumed with minimal effort. She didn’t want to die, but she hadn’t exactly been concerned with living either. 

At last her eyes darted to the corner, over by the window, where a white dress hung from a hunting knife that had been punched through the wall. Straight through the center of the sweetheart neckline. Nesta had lost count of the weeks it had been there. A reminder. A memorial. Little circular burns littered the fishtail skirt, remnants of late nights with too much booze and an ashtray full of half-smoked blunts still on the windowsill. 

“Oh, Nesta.” Feyre’s hand came up to cup her mouth. Nesta raised her chin, refusing to feel reprimanded. “I’m sending Alis this afternoon.” 

“I can look after myself,” Nesta hissed through her teeth. 

“Clearly,” Feyre threw her arms wide and turned in a circle, “you cannot. You know I came here hoping you were getting better. I gave you space, knew you blamed me for what happened. At least partially. But it’s time, Nesta. I lost them too. But I don’t have the luxury of drinking and smoking my way into oblivion on my sister’s dime.” 

“Is this just about the money?” Nesta asked incredulously, “I’ll fucking pay you back if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“No, no,” Feyre brushed a lock of hair out of her face, frustrated, “it’s not the money. I don’t care about the money. Neither does Rhys. We just want you to come back to the land of the living.” 

“Ah, yes. The royal We.” Nesta sat abruptly on her sunken couch and leaned forward, not caring that she was just wearing a pair of underwear beneath the oversized shirt, “how is dearest Rhys? High Lording as well as ever I presume. Now with better reasons than ever to hate me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” she said too quickly, wringing her fingers for a moment before she whispered, “we...we missed you at the funerals.” 

Nesta’s blood ran cold. Her eyes swam with tears that wouldn’t fall.

“I know why you didn’t show,” Feyre couldn’t look at her, “I almost understand it...but we still missed you. Father was interred with full honors of the Night Court. I’m having a garden planted for Elain up at the estate. You should come see it when you’re ready.” 

Nesta really needed a drink. Feyre needed to leave. She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not today. Not ever. 

“Get out.” 

“Nesta—”

“Get out.” Nesta’s voice was low, lethal. 

“Fine,” the High Lady voice was back in full force, “I only really came to give you this.” She pulled out what looked like a business card from her freshly pressed pant pocket, “this might seem...forward. But, I think it might help you. Rhys and I use the service sometimes when we’re looking for something different. I know you won’t go see someone. This might be a different kind of therapy. Tell her I sent you, she’ll know what to do.”

“Fine, fine,” Nesta took the card from her, hoping it would get her to leave faster, “get out.” 

“Nesta,” Feyre stopped and took a breath, her hand wrapped around the doorknob, “please do be discrete.” 

Nesta furrowed her brow, but nodded. She had been, for the most part. Except on nights she was too blitzed to remember her own name, let alone that her sister was High Lady of this region. 

“I’m still sending Alis,” Feyre wrinkled her nose again as she opened the door and strolled out. And that was that. No goodbye. They hadn’t ever been good at those. 

Nesta blinked at the door, the apartment suddenly feeling small and cramped. She turned over the card in her hand. It had only a name and a number. AMREN. 202-555-0187. She flicked it onto the table. Whatever, she thought as she sauntered over to the kitchen and took a swig from the nearest whiskey bottle. 

↞↠

“Ms. Archeron.”

“Yes?” The tone of the man’s voice made her drop the place card she had been holding. 

“There’s been an accident. A plane crash,” he hesitated. Her eyes stopped seeing. Her body shivered with a bone-rattling chill despite the summer sun streaming into the room through the open windows. They couldn’t be—

“Say it.” Her voice was a breath on the wind. 

“There were no survivors.”

She didn’t hear the rest. Someone was screaming. A crash, glass breaking, warmth sliding down her leg. A sharp, metallic smell in the air. She couldn’t hear them calling her name, couldn’t feel their fingers gripping her skin, feel the pressure of the towel collecting the blood from the gash in her leg. 

A plane crash, he’d said. No survivors. 

Tomas was dead. 

Her father was dead.

Elain…she had just planted flowers for spring. 

A fresh scream ripped from her throat.

↞↠

She woke up with it echoing in her ears, heart pounding. Wrenching the fresh sheets off her clammy skin, she felt for the scar on her thigh, catapulting her back into the present. Nesta hadn’t let them stitch it for days, had wanted to remember. It had almost festered. Feyre had held her down while they numbed and sutured. Most of those days were lost now, either to shock or sleep, she didn’t know. It hadn’t taken long for the drinking to start. 

Her head was pounding. Alis had stormed the apartment hours earlier, tut-tutting about the stale stench, throwing open every window. Nesta actually appreciated the fresh air. She didn’t appreciate the old woman’s silent appraisal of her ruined wedding dress. 

“Don’t touch it,” Nesta had snapped. Alis had tut-tutted some more, cleaning as she went, but she left the dress alone. 

Now, with a clean apartment and nothing to keep her company but her own self-pity, she laid spread-eagle in her bed that felt too big in clothes that felt too clean. Nothing matched her insides anymore. The small, decrepit thing inside of her that shrivelled that day and rejected everything still living. Even herself. She had never been a particularly warm person, but Elain, sweet and beautiful Elain, had made her care about something outside of herself.

She got up to find something to dull her head. A bottle of ibuprofen sat on the coffee table, next to a decanter of scotch. She washed the pills down with the brown liquor and sat on the edge of the sofa, her head in her hands.

The silence pressed her on her eardrums. An oppressive lack of sound, only the barest of sounds audible on the street. Too quiet. For the first time in months it was too quiet. Her head shot up and focused, eyes darting to the card neatly placed in the corner of the table. 

Amren. 

What had Feyre meant, “a different kind of therapy”? Hell would have to freeze over before Nesta crawled onto a couch to talk about her feelings, Feyre had admitted as much. So what was this? 

She picked up the card and flipped it over. Simple, white, just the number in embossed black. The curiosity was going to kill her if she didn’t just call the number. She reached for her phone, hauled out from between the couch cushions by Alis earlier. It had been dead for weeks. She’d given up on ignoring the condolences calls and just let the battery drain. Probably why Feyre had shown up yesterday unannounced. She swiped past all of the missed call and voicemail notifications and pulled up the keypad. 

It only rang once. 

“Yes?” A clipped, cold voice answered the phone. 

“Uhh, is this Amren?” 

“Speaking,” her voice didn’t soften, “can I help you?” 

“My sister gave me your card,” Nesta didn’t like this woman. She wracked her brain to think of how this person could help her, especially when she didn’t particularly want anyone’s help. 

“And who, my dear,” Nesta could hear the snide smile in Amren’s voice, “is your sister?”

“Feyre,” Nesta huffed, “Feyre Archeron.” 

“Oh, Feyre darling! Why didn’t you say so?” Amren warmed immediately. Well, at least to a level above stone cold. “Yes, Feyre told me about you.”

“You must have read—”

“I don't read the news, dear girl,” Amren said, flippant. “I have someone perfect for you. I will send him. Already have your address.” 

God, she really needed to have a conversation with Feyre about boundaries. Who is she sending?

“Who are you sending?” Nesta had not been sober long enough for this. Her brain wasn’t firing quick enough to deal with whoever this person was sending to her apartment. 

“His name is Cassian. He’ll be at your apartment in two hours.” 

Two hours?!

“I can’t have anyone in my apartment in two hours! What is this??” 

“We call it therapy,” just like Feyre had, “you don’t need to do anything to prepare.” 

“But I don’t even—” The line went dead. 

Nesta stared at her phone. How could I prepare if I don’t know what to prepare for?

↞↠

Two hours later, Nesta was pacing. Nervous. She was rarely nervous but she was also rarely unprepared. This felt like a bad omen, like suspense in a horror film. Like this Cassian might jump out of the shadows at any moment from some secret portal. 

She had washed her hair but no makeup. She had put on leggings but no real pants. There were concessions she was willing to make and others she wasn’t. It didn’t matter that they were only concessions to her own pride. Feyre got one opportunity to meddle in Nesta’s life, one opportunity to try and control how she coped with losing everything. Nesta would endure it in her own home, in her bare feet, or she wouldn’t endure it at all. 

An assertive knock at the door made her jump. 

Her heart thundered. She hadn’t talked to a man in months, let alone been in a small space with one. Now there was one at her door. She padded across her expensive rug, smoothing her hair as she went. Her hand gripped the doorknob, giving herself a second to stop shaking. Breathe in, breathe out. She jerked the door open only to be left utterly speechless. 

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen was leaning on the door frame, forearms crossed over his massive chest. 

“Nesta?” one corner of his full mouth curved upward. He inclined his head behind her left shoulder after she nodded. “Gonna let me in?” 

“Why should I?” She challenged, angling her chin up at him. 

“Because,” his shoulder length black hair slid into his face as his towering frame looked down at her. He came closer and held her chin between his rough fingers, “you’re at least a little curious about what I’m doing here.” 

Nesta ripped her face from his hands and took a step away from him. His hazel eyes stripped her bare. How does he do that? He appraised her frankly, taking in her sloppily thrown together appearance. The baby hairs that clung to the side of her face, unable to stay in her top knot. Her soft curves that the oversized t-shirt she wore only hinted at. All the way down to her toes, the cracked polish left over from her wedding manicure, just a couple of splotches of color left. 

His gaze sent a warmth through her. She tried to will it away, send it back to the hell she belonged in. Shaking her head, she stuck him with a glare. 

“Fine,” she stepped aside, “come in and tell me what you’re doing here so I can tell you to get out.” 

He walked in smoothly, his gray slacks gripping his toned thighs with each stride. Too casual, Nesta thought, for a therapist, especially with his white shirt open at the collar and rolled to his elbows. Not that she actually believed whatever this was even approached therapy.

He stopped in the center of Nesta’s living room and turned, giving the place as detailed a once-over as he had given her. His eyes only paused briefly on the wedding dress still hanging in the corner, but he faced her again as if nothing were out of the ordinary. 

“So,” he took up so much space as he spoke, too big, too much life for this apartment that had only contained her hollow soul for so long, “everyone up to this point has referred to this appointment as therapy, correct?” 

“Yes,” Nesta replied, curt. “But you’re no therapist, are you, Cassian?”

He snorted, a challenge to her fire temper. She didn’t like to be mocked and somehow he knew that. “No, I’m no therapist.” 

“I’m what is referred to in the circles you run in as an escort, a friend, of sorts.” He looked her dead in the eye. No shame, no fear. Just a professional. “We call it therapy, first and foremost for discretion, but also because I’m here to make you feel better. Feel alive again. In whatever form that might take.”

Nesta stiffened. Her mouth dropped open. No. “My sister sent me a hooker? You’re telling me that, my sister, the High Lady of the Night Court, sent me a hooker?!” 

She could barely keep up with the 100 mile an hour thoughts racing through her head. It wasn’t long before the pacing started again. Feyre said she uses the service sometimes...with Rhys?! She maybe could have guessed that her sister and her ass of a husband were freaky but prostitutes?! Couldn’t they just ask someone? 

Nesta, please do be discrete, she’d said as she walked out the door. She guessed paying for silence was easier than risking a secret. Money is always the best form of currency. 

Well, I guess I fucking know why. And she set this up for me?! What in hell’s fire did she think she was doing?

Cassian just stood there while her brain worked, while it exploded with all of this new information. So still, a statue compared to her frantic pacing. He must deal with this a lot. But wait, don’t people usually know what they’re asking for?! 

“You’ve never–“ she couldn’t finish the question out loud. Sharing was something foreign to Nesta even when she wasn’t talking about sexual partners. 

“No,” he shook his head, “Amren wouldn’t have sent me here if I had. She just told me the context of the visit.”

“So, you’re here,” Nesta stopped in front of him, “to have sex with me?” The words came out a whisper. They sounded so foreign, so ridiculous. 

“I’m here to help you.” He took a step toward her. The walls came down fast.

“And why do you think you can help me?” The words cut through the space like a knife. Accusatory, incredulous, they almost stung passing over her vocal cords. 

“Because, dear Nesta,” he took another step toward her, and another, “I’m very good at helping people.” 

The warmth in her blood returned and warred with the acid coursing through her veins, the hate. It came raging back from this morning, from the past months, from ten minutes ago when this cocky prick knocked on her door. He was staring again, close enough to have to look down at her, just an inch or two from touching. 

“I don’t need help from a high-dollar whore,” she spat. The only sign that she’d hit her mark was a faint twitch in his eyebrow. 

“I’ve been called worse, sweetheart,” he drawled. “But let’s get one thing straight. I think you need help more than you’d ever admit. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath since then. I read the papers. A beloved dead sister. Absent from the funerals. You blame yourself for not being there, for not dying with them. The guilt warms your bed at night while you lie awake, as much a part of you as the alcohol that twinges your breath. It’s become so familiar you don’t remember what it’s like without it. Who would Nesta Archeron be without that dark stain on her conscience following her like a storm cloud? Will all those liquor bottles I saw outside answer that question for you? Will that tattered wedding dress?”

“How dare–“ she felt the door press against her back, unconsciously moving with him while he lashed at her burning soul, fire for fire. 

“Oh, I dare,” he continued, planting his hands on the door behind her, trapping her with his eyes. “Because take it from someone who knows, when you decide to wake up and live with what you have left instead of existing with everything you’ve lost, there may not be anything left to live with. And trust me, guilt makes a very lonely bedfellow.”

Nesta had barely blinked this whole time, refusing to let him have that victory. Even if everything he’d said had hit home. Even if everything he’d said had flayed her open and raked her insides across the coals. She still burned with that unyielding rage. 

“Is that what you say to all the girls that pay for your time?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. She was close enough to smell him, the warm spice of clove and sandalwood with a distinctly male musk. It was intoxicating. It was infuriating. 

“Some. Some of the men, too. I’m an equal opportunity tough lover.” 

She swallowed hard. He was close enough that if she moved an inch his hair might brush her cheek. “Is that what this is? Tough love? For someone you just met?”

“It’s the truth,” his breath tickled her face, the tension crackling like static electricity around them, “isn’t it?”

He sounded tentative for the first time, like maybe he’d overstepped. Is it really so obvious?

“Did Feyre pay you to say those things?” Or were they just written so plainly on her face?

“Nooo,” he said, lower than before, gentler, raising one of his hands like he might stroke her cheek. She cursed herself silently for hoping. He came closer then, his lips a hair’s breadth away from her ear, “Feyre paid me to fuck you senseless.” 

Goddamn him. Fire shot into her veins. Not the simmering fury of her anger but something deeper, hotter, pooling in her core. Her breath caught in a little gasp and he smiled. A wide, full grin with teeth that made him look more predator than man.

Her body was a traitor, but it made no difference. She was already burning in hell.

Cassian held still, letting her make the next move. Part of her wanted to make him stand there forever, punish him for what he said, what he knew about her, daring to say what no one else would with just one look. A different part of her wanted to rip him apart. 

“Come on, Nesta,” a prince of cats toying with his prey, “show me that fi–“

Her lips crashed against his. God, he was big. She reached around him, fingers tensed to claw at his back, and savored the muscles and sinews that made up the terrain. He pressed her into the door. His hands cupped her face, so gentle for a kiss that was anything but. Flames licked her skin everywhere he touched, at every point their bodies connected through clothing.

He leaned and gripped and suddenly she was taller than him, her legs wrapped around his middle, his fingers pressed into the curve of her ass. She gripped the sides of his face and guided him to the side, forcing herself deeper, her tongue brazenly exploring his mouth. He even tasted wild, like fresh mint and adrenaline. Her heart beat in her ears, deafening over the silence of the apartment. He moaned, so deep it vibrated in her chest.

Nesta broke first, pupils blown and breath ragged.

“Finally shut you up?” she asked, sagging back against the door, her head falling against the wood with a low thud. 

He….well, he growled. There was no other word for the sound that rippled through his whole body and found a home between her legs. Her toes curled and she thanked every god that he couldn’t see. 

“Pretty little acid tongue,” he pushed them off the door and walked her toward the bed, almost tripping twice over the plush rug. Nesta didn’t notice. She was too busy tearing at the buttons down Cassian’s chest. Each one revealed inch after inch of smooth golden skin. Licks of black ink stretched from his shoulders, mostly hidden by more shirt. She huffed, trying to shove it off, but instead caught his nipple by accident with her nails. 

His nostrils flared as he hissed and dropped her unceremoniously on the mattress. She bounced, breathless. Dangerously close to a giggle. Traitor. She schooled her features back to bored disdain. The only hint of lust was the glassy haze in her vision, honed in on Cassian’s bare chest. 

He had removed his shirt while she had been distracted by her traitorous body, discarded it somewhere above her. The black inked lines Nesta had seen stretched around his shoulders and down his arms in dark whorls and spirals. The tattoo was almost feminine in its pure decoration, a stark contrast to his cut biceps. It was beautiful. 

He was beautiful. 

“Careful, Nesta,” he chided, “someone might think you like what you see.” 

She gave him a filthy gesture. A deep, rumbling laugh escaped him as he took a step closer, his fingers grazing the outer seams of her leggings. From her ankle to her knee, where he stopped to make circles. He curved around her knee and gripped her legs, tugging her to the edge of the bed. The palms of his hands burned her skin straight through her leggings. He hadn’t tried to remove her clothes. She couldn’t decide if it was a tease or an insult. Probably both. 

“Are you just going to talk?” she cocked an eyebrow at him, “or are you going to do something productive with that mouth?” 

His eyes narrowed, “are you sure that’s what you want?” 

She wanted him. Damn her, she wanted him so bad she could barely stand to look at him. The guilt roiled in her stomach, that she should take pleasure while everyone she’d loved could no longer. He’d offered her help, but it would be her damnation. No, this was just a distraction. No amount of distraction could bring back Tomas, or her father, or Elain. 

Light from the city outside shifted and spread into the corner drawing her eye. The dress. Her wedding dress. In the night shadows, the blunt burns looked like angry, gaping voids. They whispered to her as she stared. Traitor, traitor, traitor. 

I’m here to help you. His words were poison. Bred from a kind of hope only Feyre, with her perfect life, could ever have again after what they had lost. Her want for Cassian’s body burned her from the inside, stoked the fires of the self-inflicted hell she’d cast herself into. Nothing more than a catalyst. She could take his body and burn for doing so, but she would not accept his help. 

“Cassian,” Nesta’s voice didn’t belong to her. She pulled her t-shirt up to just below her breasts, exposing her flat stomach and drawing his eyes to her waistband. “just do what you came to do.” 

The air chilled as he stiffened. Her heart raced, waiting for him, fingers teasing her bare skin. He didn’t move. She lifted a bare foot and ran it along his pant leg, coaxing him to touch her. He nodded, as if making some decision Nesta wasn’t privy to. His face, lit so beautifully by the moonlight, hardened into a mask. A smooth, smiling mask. Prince of cats no more. 

“Cassian?” 

“Dear Nesta, I do believe our time is up,” he leaned down and reached over her, his chest just grazing her belly, the only skin to skin contact they’d had. She swore she felt him shudder, but it was over in an instant. He quickly retrieved his shirt from behind her and pulled it on. 

She gaped at him, “what do you mean our time is up?” 

“I mean,” his eyes shot right through her with cool confidence, “it’s getting late and I do need my beauty sleep. I must be going.” 

“But–“ she didn’t understand. Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this how he gets paid? How can he leave? 

He buttoned up his shirt, swift and efficient. Little feeling or warmth. Nesta wasn’t sure what to do. Confusion quickly gave way to anger, boiling in her veins, flushing her skin.

“So, you’re not just a whore,” she hissed, “you’re a bastard whore that can’t even finish the job.” 

“So lovely meeting you, dear Nesta,” he turned with a sweet smile and opened the door, sending any tension between them out into the hallway. He breezed through the door, clicking it shut behind him so gently he might have been a phantom. 

Nesta slammed her head against the mattress and let out a frustrated scream so loud she had no doubt the bastard whore heard it.

taglist: @sleeping-and-books @greerlunna @sjmships @cupcakey00 @queenestarcheron

Cassian’s POV is next ❤️

[llendrinall]

What if the golden trio + Draco magically get sucked into a universe where Riddle was killed before the potters were. And they grow up from babes to adulthood not remembering anything until they suddenly get their memories when each reach the age of 21 and ohh imagine how hard itd be on each's parents cuz they dont know whats wrong and all. Then bam Ron shows up engaged to a muggleborn he never spoke to in school and Harry and Draco are spotted on a date in a muggle zoo. The Malfoy's flip and so do the Potters.

It'd be a lovely story of healing, connecting and love and honesty I think they deserve it after the shit they went through.

The memories come to them in dreams. At first it’s just a strange, upsetting, dream that has a bit more consistency than dreams usually have and that lingers through the day while dreams fade away before you get out of bed. By the third night they have almost all the memories back, each dream slotting nicely with the previous one. Harry is understandably freaked out. He makes a quick trip to Godric’s Hollow to go hug his parents and then spends a lot of time looking at the one family photo they have in the living room, the one in which Harry and Dudley were seven. He stares at Petunia’s smile and wonders whatever happened to give him such horrible ideas about his aunt.

He and Ron are friends, living together as they went through the Auror training and now in their first year working as Aurors. Harry talks to Ron because he can’t shake that horrible feeling of dread; all the things he could lose or maybe all the things he has lost. That’s when they realize they have the same freaking memories, the same dreams, down to the nasty details like Ron leaving during the horcrux hunt or Harry being kind of a jerk about Ginny.

Ron, being Ron, is blessed with an eminently practical and down to earth sense of life. The dreams are strange and it would be very interesting to learn how come they got the same dream-memories, if something happened to their other selves and why are they suddenly remembering now. All those are very good and valid questions that someone should investigate. For now, Ron is going to find Hermione Granger and do whatever it takes to make her fall in love with him so he can marry her.

It turns out that Hermione has been getting the same dreams, the same memories, and when Harry and Ron – those two classmates she was friendly with but not super close to – come knocking on her door, she cries and she doesn’t know if it sadness for what they lost of joy to have them back. Ron once again shows his superior sense by grabbing her hand and saying that yes, this might be a super duper weird spell, and yes Hermione is right to suspect it and want to know why and where it came from, and yes, there may be some dark forces playing around; but none of that changes the fact that he loves her and even if the memories proved to be fake he will still love her because she has the courage and smarts to suspect the meaning of these memories and basically what Ron is trying to say is that he loves all iterations of Hermione. Sorry, but she is stuck with him.

They get married that same day, with Harry acting as a witness. Then they go tell their respective families. The Grangers take it surprisingly well and don’t even threaten Ron with dismemberment if he ever hurts Hermione. Instead, they ask him to do right by her. Ron, who might be going a bit mad, makes a vow of devotion and loyalty with his actual knee on the floor and the Grangers love it. They named their only daughter Hermione, of course they love it when an actual chivalric hero comes into their living room.

The Weasleys are a different thing. They know enough about magic to be suspicious of the sudden memories. Mrs Weasleys gives Hermione the stink eye because, to be honest, this sounds a lot like a love-potion. It’s only because Harry is there with the same memories and no wish to marry Hermione that Mrs Weasley doesn’t call the Wizarding Patrol immediately. Also, the twins and Ginny dislike Hermione. The twins slightly less so because they only had to suffer her as Prefect for a year, but for Ginny it was three long years of Hermione barring her from hexing and/or beating people. It was very frustrating and she blames Hermione for every pimple she got during that time. If Ginny had been allowed to hex Parkinson or Malfoy of freaking Finch-Fletchley every time they were their annoying selves, Ginny would have been much calmer and mellower and her skin would have reflected it.

So the Weasleys are not happy but there isn’t much they can do about it other than keep a close look on Hermione and wait for Ron to see reason.

It is a very busy weekend to say the least. On Monday Harry has vertigo because the week seems awfully empty (disarming a blood hex and capturing its creator, ppft, what is that for someone who remembers fighting Voldemort?). Harry would rather have his hours full so he won’t be overwhelmed by his thoughts. There is so much death in the memories! His parents, Sirius, Remus, Peter, even Regulus who is profoundly weird and very snobbish but James insists on inviting him to events and he keeps coming despite how uncomfortable he looks. They are all dead in Harry’s memories.

There is also Malfoy, who is even more of a jerk in the memories and who grew up to become an actual Death Eater like his father, someone who almost killed Dumbledore and who, when the time came, saved Harry’s life with a lie.

On Thursday the Auror office receives a call of dark activity in Minaford Park, which is where Draco Malfoy is living these days. Harry takes the assignment and makes quick work of the boggart and the ghoul that somehow were trapped under the stairs and were screaming at each other. As excuses go, it’s not too bad. Harry is certain that Draco could have done it himself, but it is messy enough that it seems believable that he would prefer someone else to fix it for him.

Draco offers Harry tea, which he accepts. There is a very odd tension in the air. Draco is down to his shirt sleeves and has shadows under his eyes and when he looks at Harry… It can’t be said that he looks at him funny. Draco was his usual snobbish self while he watched Harry getting rid of the creatures. But there is something in his eyes when Harry takes a seat and accepts the tea cup. Something almost like sorrow.

No, not sorrow.

Compassion.

“Look, Potter”, Draco says. “I am too old to start having prophetic dreams, but this affects you directly. You figure out if someone is playing with a timer-turner or what, here it goes.” And he tells Harry everything.

As one could expect, Minaford Park has a very beautiful garden. Draco and Harry spend hours after lunch walking through it. Ah, yes, Harry stayed for lunch. Draco insisted. He still had things to tell Harry and he was growing hungry.

They meet again on Saturday, ostensibly so Harry can tell Draco what he and Hermione had learned. Ron says he doesn’t give a damn where the memories came from. He only cares what he can do with them and so far he seems to be doing pretty well, having married Hermione and encouraged Bill to ask Fleur Delacour out. Hermione and Harry are a bit more worried, but Harry will admit the research effort goes 30-70% in Hermione’s favour.

Talking with Draco is good. He seems to share the same dread as Harry. Draco confesses that he is not happy with his conduct, or rather the conduct of the Draco that could be. He talks a lot about the fear and nausea at having the Dark Lord in his house, the smell of despair that took over the manor, the mad glint in his aunt Bellatrix’s eyes. Since Draco talks about his aunt, about seeing her mad and cruel and talking proudly about torturing the Longbottoms, Harry feels that he can talk about his own aunt Petunia and Draco will understand. Lily and Petunia don’t have the closest relationship, but to think that she could treat Harry like that…

The Sunday visit to the zoo isn’t a date. As soon as Hermione learns that Draco also has the memories she assigns work pairs and tasks. She sends Harry and Draco to check the reptiles in case they see something like Nagini in there. Both of them have the most memories of her. They should be able to recognize the snake.

Nagini is there and she is surprisingly cognizant for a snake which makes them suspect that she might be a horcrux. The discovery leaves them cold, a new kind of vertigo opening before them. They didn’t live through it, they are only memories, but the exhaustion of the war feels real and they don’t want to go through anything similar again.

Draco asks to go see the penguins and it might seem silly and contradictory, but watching them helps a lot to keep the chill from Nagini away. Neither can tell who initiated, but while in there they begin to hold hands. They go to see the butterflies next, which are in the next pavilion, and suddenly everything in the world looks much better. They don’t kiss when they part, but the way they look at each other is worth at least three kisses.

On Monday Harry receives a short message from Remus that simply says he has sequestered the Prophet’s copy but he doesn’t know how long he can keep Harry’s parents from seeing the news. Harry takes the morning off work and goes to Godric’s Hollow immediately so they can learn about Draco from him rather than the salacious gossip column.

James simply says, “MALFOY? You… MALFOY!?”.

He seems upset. Then he freezes and for the next ten minutes James says nothing. He doesn’t move. He is just there, in the kitchen, one hand in the air and the other holding a cup of tea that is growing cold.

“Harry, dear, I want you to come to dinner today.” Lily says. She has a worried frown but is otherwise unperturbed. “And tell us everything about those memories. Even the bad bits. This is important. It can be dangerous.”

“Yes! Dinner!” James screams, suddenly unfreezing. “Bring him to dinner. Tonight.”

“What?”

“No, you are right. It might be too formal, too soon. Quidditch, then. Does he like Quidditch? He must. I remember you complaining about him while you were in school.”

“He… likes Quidditch, yes.” Harry says hesitantly because even now he is not sure if his dad is talking about Draco.

“Perfect. We shall go see a Quidditch match, the three of us.”

“James.” Lily warns.

“Does anybody in this house know when the next Quidditch match is?” James cries over his wife’s warning that he is doing it again, just like with Sirius.

“Saturday.” Remus says.

“That’s too late! When is Sirius back?”

“Wednesday.” Answers Remus and despite his transformation exhaustion he nimbly steps away from Lily’s strike with the newspaper. Usually Remus would spend his transformation at home, but since Sirius had to go on a trip he came to James and Lily’s so he would have company, which led to the fortunate circumstance of being able to take the newspaper and delay the news.  

“Honestly, Remus.” Chides Lily.

“I’m not encouraging him! You can’t call answering his questions encouragement!”

“It is decided, then.” James announces from the chair. He has climbed a chair and is speaking from atop. “Friday, you bring young Malfoy home. We will play Quidditch and some board games and have dinner in the yard. Sirius shall bring Regulus so Malfoy is not the only Slytherin.”

“James, listen to me…” Lily tries with little faith that James would listen to anyone.

That same morning, at eleven, Lucius Malfoy receives a howler from James Potter composed of thirty-two seconds of mad laughter, which means that James must had listened to Lily at some point or most likely that she was able to take his wand.

It couldn’t be said that James Potter was happy to hear that his beloved son was dating a snobbish Slytherin prick, no, but as soon as he realized that Lucius Malfoy would be equally unenthused about it, it had awaken James’s unhinged tendency towards confrontation with the established power and forced adoption of families’ black sheep. He had done it to Sirius, he had done it to Remus, he had done it to Peter (even if it failed catastrophically) and he was doing it to Regulus now. He had even befriended Severus Snape. Oh! Snape! He should invite Snape too. That way they could make teams of four.  He would come if Lily asked him to.

And afterwards they explore those memories, and Lily looks worried and so does Snape. Regulus goes very quiet for a while but then he gives his opinion of what has happened and it’s the most words anyone has heard him speak but the multiverse theory makes a lot of sense.  

The Weasleys warm up to Hermione eventually. They can’t tell why, exactly, other that Ron is beaming these days. Also, every time she comes to the Burrow she brings a gift to Arthur. It is a very obvious ploy to make them like her but it works because she sees the gift through and answers all of Arthur’s questions no matter how long it takes. The twins took notes when she gave her physics lecture. It was most informative. They created two prank artefacts out of it.

They find the few horcruxes Voldemort managed to make. Peter, who had a falling out with the Potters years ago, resurfaces and tries to steal a horcrux and bring back the Dark Lord out of spite. According to Regulus some people are dedicated to bring their own destruction and you can’t do anything about it.  Barty Crouch Jr. also tries to bring Voldemort back, but by then Lucius Malfoy has been adopted by James even though he is a powerful adult man with his own family. It makes no sense. If anything, Lucius should be the one informally adopting people and grooming them under his wing to be his devoted friends and allies. But Lucius had become James’, just like Severus warned him it would happen, so he puts a stop to that Barty Crouch nonsense pretty quickly and to any other former Death Eaters with ideas. Lucius might not like the Potters but he likes the idea of Voldemort taking over his house even less, and whatever else his happening, it makes Draco happy, so.

What little of Voldemort remained alive, it is now dead.

The four of them, they have the shadows and regrets of two lives, the fear and pain of two wars, but the happiness afterwards… Oh, it is worth it, it is very, very worth it. It is the happiness of two lives, tenfold.  

[dwellordream]

Kissing tears from the other’s face. For Maegor and Aemma.

She is surprised to wake to find him weeping, and listens with perverse curiosity for a few moments before he realizes she has stirred.

The pain between her legs is a dull stab, and the bed smells like blood and poppies, but at least she can feel some hunger growling in her belly, and a dryness and urge to drink from her mouth.

Those seem like good signs of her improving health. Wordlessly, he offers her water and watches intently as she gulps it down, no dainty sips her, and it trickles icy mountain cold down her chin and onto her shift.

Someone has changed her clothes. This is not the one she was wearing when she went into labor.

“The babes are well?” she asks, sharply, when she can speak. They must be, she knows they must be, they were born big and strong, even for twins, and that is what caused all the nasty bleeding- He nods, jerkily.

Aemma lets herself relax minutely. “Good. They’re with the nurse? That’s one solace for me, then.” She smiles wanly. “You know I always hated to have a child on the teat.”

He grips her hands in his, and she sees his violet eyes are red-rimmed and hollow. “How can you jape,” he all but growls, though it holds no fear or intimidation for her, “when I almost lost you?”

“I am right here,” she says, “never fear, you could not escape me that easily, my prince.”

He looks away from her as if to compose himself. “Never again,” he says, thickly, after a moment. “No more. I cannot- had you- if you’d not returned to me, I would have…”

“Now you know how I felt, seeing you off to war,” she cannot help but point out. “Where is my reward for a battle well-fought? Have you nothing for me?”

He turns back to her, sees she is crying a little herself, because as brave a face she put on when he was shouting at the maester and midwives who would not let him in the room, she was terrified herself, terrified to leave him with their children.

She knows they would be alright- Maegor is a wonderful father, and her family would never let them feel alone- but she is still selfish at heart, and could not bare to miss out on the decades to come.

When he kisses her tears from her cheeks, she wipes away his with a trembling thumb, and lets herself fall into him, drinking in his scent, nestling her face in his hair.

[hermits-that-craft]

Marionette Roulette - Chapter 3

TW: Teen death mention, crying, signs of abuse

ao3 link in the reblogs

Tommy lies in his bed, sleep gently placing him in his bed. He was with Tubbo, in his dreams. Why couldn’t he stay? He misses his friend.

Tommy hears footsteps around his small cell. They have a strange sound - both heavy and armoured, clinking against the ground, but light as well. As though the person is wearing armour, but hiding it under layers.

Tommy knows, starvation addled mind still functioning enough for fear to recognise that Dream is the visitor. He doesn’t sound like Techno, or Wilbur, or even Phil as he walks. And in any case, Dream is the only one who is allowed to visit him. Who would visit Tommy, the teen who got his best friend killed? The teen who hurt so many people that Techno knew before he left to join Wilbur’s revolution, his older brother trying to keep him from harming more. The teen that Wilbur knew was a monster, Pogtopia helping him see that Tommy is the route of his problems.

Tommy’s head blooms in pain, and Tommy can’t help the whimper that falls from his lips. Dream looks to him, surprised that the teen is awake.

He’s spent a week in the prison without moving or eating, just taking sips of water as Dream forces him. Tommy knows, somehow, that Dream is worried, or even fearful, for what is happening to Tommy.

But it hurts. His head hurts so much - too much. Why does it hurt so much?

“Oh, Tommy.” Dream hums in sympathy, and Tommy feels the bed dip from the weight of the other man. “See - this is what happens if you don’t eat. You get hungry.”

“Head.” Tommy curls into a ball, his hands on the top of his head. He can feel warm, sticky blood in between his fingers. “Bleeding. Hurts.”

“No, don’t be an idiot.” Dream tutts, smacking Tommy’s hands away from his head. “You’re just hungry, because you’re stubborn and you refuse help. That’s why Tubbo died - you refused help.”

Tommy wails at the reminder, the pain in his head spreading to his fingers, feet and tailbone. His whole body feels like it’s on fire - it’s not fair.

“You know, Tubbo’s funeral is tomorrow.” Dream says. “His father even came. Where is your father, Tommy? Picking up better children because you’re a monster who kills everyone he loves?”

Tommy screams again, all anger and grief and acceptance, because deep down, Tommy knows that Dream is right.

Tommy is a monster. He’s the worst of all his brothers, of anyone in his family. 

Of anyone on the server.

---

“Welcome to the server, Captain-”

“Save it Dream.” The man says, walking past the server’s admin to Phil, who avoids looking at the man. Jordan takes his sunglasses off, his eyes filled with tears.

“Jordan-”

“Tell me it was a prank.” Jordan begs his friend, his voice hollow. “Tell me I didn’t outlive Tubbo. Tell me that my son is just around the corner, giggling under his breath. Tell me that this server, that was promised to be safe, is safe! Tell me that Tubbo is still alive!”

“I’m sorry.” the words fall like a guillotine from Phil’s lips, and Jordan falls to his knees, a sob ripping itself out of his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who.” It’s not a question, rather a demand for justice. “Who?”

“Me.” Dream says blankly. “I was aiming for Tommy, your son jumped in front of him.”

“You mother fucker.” Jordan spits, lunging at the admin as though killing him will bring back Tubbo. “Bring him back! Bring my son back! You swore that this SMP would be safe for him - for him to experience SMP’s before he turned 18! How could you!”

“I can’t bring him back.” Dream lies, though the only people who know he’s lying are held on a tight leash. It doesn’t matter though, Phil and Techno escorting Jordan away from Dream, leaving behind the admin, who in turn stalks away from the world spawn.

Sunglasses lie in freshly kicked up mud, their red frames shining in the sunlight. A small hand reaches down, giggling as he picks it up.

He doesn’t know why his Dad is so upset with Dream, but he’s sure that he’ll feel better once he gets his glasses back!

---

The funeral isn’t as long as it could be, but no one knows if they would have stayed stable if it was longer. It rains the entire funeral, appropriately, and although no one lights the meadow where the teens are buried, no mobs enter. Red poppies and blue forget-me-nots grow as though the meadow was destined to be a cemetery. 

The caskets are lowered into the graves silently. Tubbo’s is small - too small, why is it so small - though Tommy’s is the same size as an adults it’s light. Two disks lie in it, along with some polaroids that Ghostbur had donated, of times long since passed. They were not Ghostbur’s in origin, but Tubbo’s and Tommy’s. The thought still counts, as the ghost did not attend the funeral, or say anything to the living.

Niki is the first to speak. Her words don’t flow like poetry, and she stumbles and chokes her way through her sentences, but the emotions are raw and true and they bring the most comfort to the fathers who have lost their sons. 

Quackity speaks next. It’s a short speech, one that he wrote with Karl and Sapnap’s help, the paper tearstained and running. His hands shake while he speaks, talking about the good times he had with the two teens. New L’Manburg, running drugs, even parts of Pogtopia and Manburg are brought up, and by the time he leaves the stand, Quackity is close to collapsing. Karl and Sapnap pull him into a close hug, letting the man cry on their shoulders and silently promising each other that they will not be the next to go - for the fiancee’s sake.

Fundy takes the stand, and though he can’t stand for more than five minutes, his speech brings up memories of before wars and countries and disks - he talks about a meadow so similar to the one that Tubbo and Tommy are being buried in. About playing with his uncle and friend who were just younger than him. He collapses soon after saying that Tubbo and Tommy had asked him to bury them in a meadow like it, hoping that they like the one he chose for them. Eret helps him off the stage, pulling Fundy away from Phil and Techno without Fundy needing to ask him.

Phil takes the stage quietly. He makes it through his entire speech without crying, though he collapses into Techno’s arms the second eyes are off him. His speech was neither short nor long, here nor there. It talked about Tommy, the gremlin who never grew old enough to discover what type of hybrid he is. Was. It spoke about Tubbo, the kind boy who would play with Tommy in the meadow near their home. It never once said anything about power, though it’s clear that Phil wanted to blame power struggles for the deaths.

Jordan speaks, in a wistful tone that tells everyone exactly who gave Sam the black eye. He talks about raising Tubbo, about how when Tommy was over the two boys were a handful but sweet. How the two would insist on helping him make dinner if Tommy was spending the night. He never brought up how he was promised a safe server for his son to play on. It’s clear in the hardness in his eyes that he despises the admin for his sons death.

Ranboo is the last to speak. He waits until Phil and Techno leave before taking the stage, and the silence that falls at the enderman hybrid’s little rebellion tells him that he needs to let everyone know. He reads every memory of the pair in his memory book. From burning Georges house to meeting them on the prime path, thinking that they were going to grind. Ranboo is not a poet, but the venom he spits at Dream is enough to make everyone remember the once living president. Ranboo speaks about hearing of Tubbo’s death. Of Tommy’s exile, and what he witnessed once. Of broken screams that he heard from Logstedshire after Tommy was long asleep. Of wet sobs that he could hear from the presidential office after a meeting with the butcher army.

“Their deaths are on everyones hands.” Ranboo spits, before he walks into the forest. He stalks into the forest, small burns pocketing his face as he refuses to bring an umbrella. 

---

Tommy lies on his bed, blood soaking through the sheets and covers. He doesn’t know how much more pain he can handle, how much more he can take. It hurts so much, bones growing in places no human should be able to grow them. 

Though he is Phil’s son, and none of them were human.

Phil himself is an avian hybrid, Techno being a pig (boar, Techno would say). Wilbur was more difficult to work out, but he was a salmon hybrid, practically a siren with the talents he had.

Tommy is 16 now. Of course his hybrid traits are coming in. 

He remembers when Techno and Wilbur’s came in. The hugs from Phil, the carefully brew potions to help them. The cards and care and love that was given to the twins. Tommy will never get that. He doesn’t get warmth, freshly dried clothes from the drying machine. He gets cold obsidian walls and a wall of lava that he can’t even drag himself towards. 

Dream chained his ankle to the corner, saying something about ‘pets’. Tommy doesn’t know, Tommy could hear him, could hear everything, all at once. It was too much, still is too much. He just wants to burrow under some blankets, under a building. Burrow somewhere safe, preferably with some blankets fresh out of the clothes dryer. And some running water nearby to wash his food with, and a close source of food and-

Tommy whimpers, bringing his hands to his ears. They no longer sit at the side of his head, but on the top of it. They’re soft and round, Tommy spends a lot of time wondering what species he is. What type of hybrid he is.

When he asked Dream, the man just laughed. He said it wasn’t important, he’s a feral animal that needs to be tamed anyways. Tommy is inclined to believe him. He knows he has sharp claws and feet with pads at the bottom of them. And a tail. He doesn’t know what it looks like, just that it’s there and it’s painful and still growing.

He can trust Dream as the man smells safe, Tommy often lies to himself. The man smells of nothing. The scent of blood or dirt should follow the man, but it doesn’t. Dream doesn’t smell of anything, but Tommy can’t afford to be choosy about who is his family.

He misses Tubbo.

----

A child watches from the trees, a black liquid falling from his eyes like ink. Unlike Ghostbur, who looks the same as he did when he was living, just grey; or Glatt, who’s horns are now red in contrast with his blue jumper; the child looks nothing like when he was alive.

His eyes are black, as though they were made from the void. His skin is whiter than paper, and the blood flowing out of the corner of his lips stands out as though nothing else in the world was that saturated. His clothes are torn, green shirt greyed and bloodied from the brutal death he experienced. The grass seems to wilt beneath his feet, and his hair floats as though he was encased in water, rather than floating in air. He simultaneously looks older than he will ever age, and younger than most of the smp knew him. His body is small, shorter than it had been in life, but his face bared the marks of someone who has lived lifetimes.

Ghostbur promised revenge - that he would flood the world to save Tommy. He would rise the sea until Dream brings his little brother home. The, if water is not threat enough, lava would take its place. The young - too young, far too young - ghost can’t believe that the sweet man who held him as he cried would do that to a world.

Didn’t believe it, not until Glatt spoke to him. Told him what Ghostbur had done to worlds as Alivebur. Had raised lava and water and could have been a god, but chose to play war against Dream in this server.

The ghostly boy believes that much. He pretends to only remember good things, but he doesn’t. He remembers what Alivebur did to Tommy. What Technoblade did to him. What Wilbur and Techno would get away with doing to the two boys. What Phil and Dream and Techno did to his country.

He remembers Schlatt. He remembers everything. Every detail, every crime. He forgot what happy memories he made, leaving only despair and anger, and the need to protect Tommy.

He doesn’t remember his father anymore. 

He let himself become hardened.

[forerussake]

How the Fëanorians deal with loss

Fëanor fights it. He refuses to acknowledge it, because acknowledging it makes it real, and it isn’t. He runs away from it and charges at it with equal ferocity. His mother might be gone, but Fëanor will never lose her as long as he keeps her memory alive. His father might’ve died, but Fëanor will never lose him as long as he himself still lives, because he is his father’s mirror image. Fëanor fights loss at every turn, because it is the thing he’s most afraid of and as long as he keeps fighting, it will never drag him down. He dies, but it doesn’t matter, for he has left his mark on the world. His body will be gone, but his legacy will never be lost. Being alive in people’s memories is the only life worth living.

Maedhros accepts it. He hates the feeling of loss with a passion, but it has become a part of him. As if to make up for the loss of his hand. He carries that pain with him wherever he goes. The guilt, the gut-wrenching nausea of knowing that everyone he’s ever loved will die eventually, because they’re all cursed, lays heavy on his spirit. Sometimes it becomes too much to bear, and he rages, and curses the world and the Valar and Eru himself, and he screams until his throat goes numb. And he moves on. Because it doesn’t change a thing. He could run away from it all he likes, but it doesn’t bring his loved ones back, and it doesn’t help protect the ones still left alive. Loss is a part of Maedhros as much as his visible scars are.

Maglor ignores it. He goes through the motions of life and acts like he’s unbothered. He smiles, but the smile never reaches his eyes. He keeps silent and moves on with a grace none of his brothers can muster, not even Maedhros. But inside he’s cold. He’s angry, broken, scared. He will never admit any of that to anyone, so his opponents on the battlefield are the ones who bear the brunt of his inner turmoil. They, and his harp. During the day he plays what is expected of him. The ballads, the great songs of glorious battles, of heroes and villains, life and death. He leaves his loss for the nights. At night he cracks, his mask of cold grace breaks away. At night he plays his best pieces. The laments he plays into the early hours of the morning to relieve the unbearable ache in his heart. They never really do, so Maglor goes silent and moves on.

Celegorm rages at it. He screams and curses and fights anyone who gets in his way. People learn to stay out of his way. Even his brothers. He hates it when people try to comfort him. He doesn’t need comfort. He isn’t sad. He’s angry and needs something to work his anger out on. Celegorm is always angry. He hides it well most of the time, but sometimes he explodes. When he does he gets himself out of people’s ways. He goes out into the wild on his own and doesn’t return for days on end. When he finally does return his hair is a mess, twigs and mud everywhere, his clothes are torn and dirty, he doesn’t speak for a while. Whether that is because he doesn’t want to or because he has forgotten how to is anyone’s guess. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks instead, but none of his brothers ever worry. It’s just how he is. Celegorm loses, gets lost, then finds his way home.

Caranthir laughs at it. He scoffs and turns his back. He will not let it hold him down. He has better things to do with his time than mourn. Taxes don’t collect themselves; treaties need the signatures of both parties; trade requires the same. Unlike those, life doesn’t bargain. It’s really quite simple and refreshing. Life only pays and collects what’s due. So he smiles his brilliant smile, collects his payment, pays in kind, and moves along. He’s called the dark and has a temper to match, but never because of anything he’s lost. His sense of humour is the best of all his brothers. He can laugh at anything. Even his own misfortune. He laughs and gets dressed in his impeccably cleaned and pressed, expensive clothing, and moves along to sign another treaty. If occasionally Caranthir does show up to the council table with dark rings under his red-rimmed eyes then no one bats an eye.

Curufin uses it. His loss is but a thing that makes him stronger. He grows with it and lets it teach him what it will. His pain is but a momentary thing. An annoying ache that leaves him hollow for a while, and then takes him to heights as yet unknown. He thinks he’ll fall, sometimes. He thinks a time will come when he has climbed so high the only way is down. But until then he’ll use his losses as the stepping stones that lead him to the top. Even if every single of those steps tears at his heart, cries out for him to stop. You’re hurting me. Forget me not. Please stay! He moves along, and every time a silent tear escapes that he can’t stop, he takes it and he crafts it into something else. A thing of beauty, a necklace or a bracelet, or a dagger with sharp edges he can stab into the backs of anyone who gets in his way on his silent stairwell to the top. Curufin’s loss makes him stronger. He does not forget, but he cannot stay.

The twins are loss personified. One is already lost, the other remains behind to feel the loss forever. 

Nerdanel cries. She cries when she first loses them, and then each time she feels that aching hole within her soul grow larger. She cries each time she feels that one of them is gone for real.

[thegoddessofchaostxt]

Villain Au! (Rock Bottom)

(This is draft for a villain au or the main fic, who knows, I just don’t want to lose it) Words: 1562 Summary: Kira is Shoto’s twin and they just rescued Bakugou, her crush (or boyfriend at this point idk) but she snaps at the realization how corrupted the hero system is. ---- Her dad being the number two hero had become a comfort blanket as the years passed. The fact that a person like him could never in his entire life, be the number one had given her hope on the system, which was corrupted on its own. Despite how bad the system was it did not bother her much as long as the symbol of peace was genuine. That was comforting, encouraging even, yet everything she believed crumbled to pieces that night. Her mind was fixated on it as she saw All Might fighting with his last push, giving all of his strength on the other side of the gigantic screen of the street. She felt desolated as the hero she looked up to took his normal form. It was all a lie. His strength was not genuine, or not in the way she thought it was and as the man pointed his index finger at the camera the sudden realization came down to her, he was not who she thought and now the symbol of peace had fallen, leaving his place to nonother than Endeavour.

She felt a slight pull in her chest as her beliefs were broken to pieces, her comfort blanket was torn apart and her mind was rushing. It wasn't worth it anymore, everything she had done had no meaning, the system was truly corrupted to its core and she was studying to take part in it.

—Kira, we have to go.

The voice of her twin snapped her out of her thoughts, noticing her heart racing to a pace she couldn't describe. Rage clouded her mind as her cyan eyes connected with the heterochromatic of her brother. A shared look spoke volumes as the rest of the group started to walk away from them with the rest of the people leaving the street, only to stop as they noticed the Todorokis wouldn't move.

—Let's go, it's over.

—No, it isn't.

She spat out in a murmur leaving Shoto frozen in place as he realized how mad she actually was.

—What?

The oldest asked taking one step in her direction before grabbing her wrist as a failed attempt to restrain her as she quickly let her arm in fire to startle him, freeing herself.

—This isn't finished.

She could feel her emotions about to pop out as heat invaded every inch of her body. All her frustration and anger accumulated on her chest making her feel hollow. If the new symbol of peace was the worst man she had ever met that meant anyone could be a hero. Anyone with a flashy or useful quirk could be a hero, without a background check. Any so-called "hero" could be another shitty criminal in the shadows, an abuser, a neglectful parent, a rapist, who knew, and nobody would say a thing because nobody wanted a hero's name to be stained, that would make the system crumble.

—What do you mean?

The cool tone of her brother's voice only irritated her more, how couldn't he see it? There was no way he wouldn't understand it, right?

—Even if All might defeated the villain I can't stop thinking about what this means for us. Endeavour is the new number one. The worst person I've ever met is now a symbol of peace?  And the symbol of peace we admired so much is not even the man we thought! He's a liar! just as dad...

The redhaired said as her brows furrowed with anger at the plain expression of her brother.

—All Might did all that he could and Endeavor is a good hero.

He responded maintaining his tone. Kira took a step back, realizing her own twin didn't see the things as they actually were.

—Oh, is that right? You know it's not true! They'll shower him with glory, flowers, compliments and he doesn't deserve any of it. Now he has even more power.  After years of me thinking that this would never happen, that the system would never let a horrible person be number one... I got proven wrong... He led Touya to his death, he neglected us, he hurt you, and now he's the new symbol of peace.

A small laugh fell from her lips at the irony of the situation.  It was unbelievable. Enji Todoroki was the new symbol of peace, a violent, neglectful, explosive imbecile was now the symbol that was supposed to inspire safety for the people yet she couldn't help but feel the opposite, it made her feel sick. She swallowed dry before rearranging her hair.

—He tried to get Touya away from...

—He neglected his eldest child and had more babies which also neglected until he had the perfect one. He choked our brother out of his god damn mind! He promised the world to him, a god damn lie!

Kira was quick to interrupt, unable to believe Shoto would even try to justify someone like their father. He was in denial, he had to be, either that or blind.

—What do you want from me!?

The sudden change in her twin's voice made her step back, shocked at it, didn't he understand it already. She looked over his shoulder, their classmates were far enough for them to be unable to listen to their conversation, if there was any moment for them to talk about it was there.

—Look outside yourself. It's not about you.

A brief silence invaded them as Shoto furrowed his brows, finally understanding her plan.

—I won't help you take him down.

She chuckled at his answer, of course, he wouldn't.

—Fine. I'll do it by myself.

Her reply made him tense up as he saw her turn around to walk in the opposite direction they should be going. Shoto was quick to follow her, intercepting his sister mid-way by standing in front of her.

—You don't need this.

She shook her head before rolling her eyes, he didn't understand it at all, did he?

—Oh, I know that I need it.

—He's been like this for years I know you'll get over it.

—No!  Look at all of this you know this is not right at all, you know he can't be number one, we can't even say his hero name without feeling sick, angry, and resentful. And you are even defending him! You are worst than dad!

Kira voiced out without even thinking.  The girl couldn't afford to stop and think about it, she was tired of her father being idolized by people who didn't know better and she felt betrayed by Shoto for taking his side, even if it was only to protect her. Her under eyes felt warm and she instantly knew flames had taken their place by evaporating any possible tears as another pull on her chest made her expression change slightly in discomfort.

—I'm trying to make you reason. He was only focusing on me when we were kids and...

—So now I have to blame you cause he was a piece of trash? No.

—No.

They quickly denied at the same time.  At least they agreed on something.

—Well if you won't do it I will. I'll even avenge Touya in the process. He'd be proud that dad gets what he deserves.

Her words were cold as her tone while a smirk installed itself on her face.

—You are feeling yourself

—Shut up...

—With hatred

—No, no...

—all the same as the brother we lost.

—Save it!

She spat out as her forearms were covered with flames as sharp as knives that barely moved fuelled by her own rage. Kira was unwilling to listen, and it was clear on her face that her mind was stuck on that idea.

—It's time I make a statement. A pity this has divided us, we could have ruled all Japan but Endour has just made a fool of yourself.

The smirk on her face quickly disappeared, replaced with pure disgust as she started walking around her brother.

—You are lost.

He mumbled in disappointment. Shoto couldn't believe what was happening, it had to be a dream, yet his sister's flame tears said otherwise, she was trying her best to hide it but she had hit rock bottom and he didn't know how to help her.

—So for you, this is what being a hero is all about' Being nice and saving people outside your house but behind closed doors you get to do what you want? Is that what you think?

She said, stopping her track next to him.

—If Endeavour gets to do it what makes you be sure nobody else does the same? What makes you think they aren't all like him, or worst? After all the system would cover it up.. I just realized I wasted so many years on all I hate. Hope it was worth it, at least have some tricks.  They'll all soon know what he did, what all the heroes hide, I'll make sure that no one keeps standing, I'll expose them.. The show's about to start, don't mess up or you'll be in it, darling brother.

The redhaired finished, leaving Shoto frozen in place as she got lost in the crowd. The rest of their classmates quickly approached him, asking about what happened, yet her brother didn't answer and by the time they started to look for her she was long gone.

[lucifer-kane]

This got away from me! But oh my god I had so much fun writing it. 

Elijah saw a lot after he was told about the magic world, now that he could actually see it and what it was like. But he never expected to see Christopher, as something he never thought the man could become in all his life.

Torn and broken, arms long and curling with claws as sharp as razors, a cracked ravens skull in place of an actual head, bright blue shining spots that were probably eyes. A body that was a void of black, like it was splitting the world where the thing stood.

But there was something about the creature, when Elijah and Morgan went up to it, slow and steady. Morgan held out her hand first, a pleading in her eyes as she held back the tears in her eyes. The creature... Christopher... shifts forward and presses its skull against Morgan’s palm, the sound coming from it something like a whine. Pained and incredibly sad.

“Darling we’re here to help.” Elijah whispers, and one of Christopher’s eyes shifts to him for a moment, before closing once more.

“I’m not losing you to yourself Christopher.” Morgan’s voice is harsh and bordering on angry, and the creature makes another pained noise before crumpling to the ground.

“Let the man die already, or succumb to himself.” The voice is flat and bored, and Elijah looks up to the man above him, looking too much like Christopher for comfort. But still different enough. The twins’ father, or as they call him more than that, the one who created them. With help of course. He was looking at Christopher with a bored expression, but a glint of something in his eyes that showed excitement at the thought of his creation finally becoming what he was supposed to be.

“Even now, I don’t think either of those things are going to happen.” Elijah says as he puts one hand on Christopher’s arm, the feeling is strange, the arm not like a person’s. Cold and.... hollow?

“What do you know of him? He doesn’t even love you like you want him to.” Elijah scoffs, a sound so very close to a laugh.

“Imagine if that were true. Oh you don’t know him at all.”

“Maybe so.” The man chuckles, dark and deep, before vanishing into the fog.

“Will he be okay?” Elijah turns to Christopher’s twin. She shrugs slightly.

“It’s been a long time since he’s been in this form. It’s scary and it drains him, we need to let him come back to himself then get him somewhere he can rest.” Elijah nods and turns back towards Christopher. Together the two sit with the creature, speaking words of love and hope, and it takes some time, but Christopher comes back to himself. Form almost melting away to his old self, still curled up in the grass and flowers of the fields outside of Helimire. He still doesn’t wake, but Morgan and Elijah take him through the tunnels under Helimire’s streets and take him to the castle, he’s the safest there, and there he rests for a week before coming around again.

Christopher presses his hand against his face as he wakes, slow and groggy, god it felt like his head was stuffed full with cotton. He opens one eye enough to look around, slightly startled to see Prince William at the side of his bed. Well. He shouldn’t be super shocked, they were friends, growing close during the war. He, Elijah, and Christopher were known to flirt amongst one another on occasion over the years.

“Someone’s here to see the light of day once again.” Christopher can’t help his laugh, William grins at his friend, reaching out to squeeze his hand gently.

“If you get me some water I’ll be here quicker.” His voice comes out like a rasp and he makes a face, even with his slightly better healing in general, he nearly killed himself with what he did, and for what? At this point even he’s not sure.

“Right away.” It’s only a moment before William returns, placing a broad hand on Christopher’s back to sit him up, gentle and kind, holding the glass with his other hand to help Christopher drink slowly. He finishes more than half of it before he slumps back against the headboard.

“Fucking hell it all still hurts.” He bites out.

“Well from what I heard, you did a lot.” William brushes hair from Christopher’s face, thick fingers brushing gently against now gaunt cheeks.

“Nearly killed myself.” Christopher mumbles angrily to himself.

“But you’re here now, safe with your friends and family.” Christopher rubs at his temple, he adores William, but sometimes the man was too optimistic for him. But it was a welcome change at times.

“Speaking of. Where’s my sister... and... Elijah?”

“I’ll go get them.” William stands and bends once to kiss the top of Christopher’s head. He’s back within five minutes and then Christopher has a bed full of his twin, curling around him, hugging him tight.

“I love you too kiddo.”

“Asshole”

“I know.” Christopher wraps his arms around his twin and buries his face in her hair. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. Morgan pulls back and sits on the edge of the bed and pinches his cheeks and he makes a face.

“Don’t do that again.” Morgan scolds, poking his forehead afterwards. He chuckles.

“I don’t think I can promise that.”

“At least pretend?”

“That I can do.”

Christopher turns his head, looking to the man standing in the doorway of the room they’re all in. He feels his sister pat his arm before moving to another part of the room, sitting on the couch there with William, the two of them start up a conversation.

“Hello Elijah.”

“My Lord.” The name flows out of Elijah’s mouth with ease, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a grin, one that Christopher returns happily. Elijah sits down next to the older man on the bed and leans their shoulders together, resting a hand over Christopher’s knee under the thin blanket covering his legs. 

“How are you feeling?” Elijah asks, voice soft. 

“Not the greatest, but probably better than I should be feeling after what I did. It’s not something I’ve done in a very long time, it took a lot out of me. Thought I’d be out longer than I was, even if I woke up at all.” 

“What happened last time? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“I was lost for a long time, mostly to myself. Morgan didn’t hear from me for about two years, I showed back up in a blooming Helimire and... acted if nothing had happened. Morgan was mad at me for a time, understandably so. I don’t remember much else.” Christopher puts his hand over Elijah’s curling his fingers around the man’s hand and holding tight.

“I scared myself then, more than ever before. Being back in that state a week ago, I was feeling different, scared, but ready to take whatever was about to come by way. I think that if I would have died then, I would have been fine with it, I’m ready at this point.” Christopher’s shoulders slump and Elijah leans in closer, the man at his side seems utterly exhausted, and not just because he woke up from a week-long coma either. 

“Have you or your sister figured out a way to take away your immortality?” 

“Not yet, we’re still working on it, honestly at this point I’d do anything to reverse it at this point, I think I have an idea in mind, but I don’t want to think on that right now.” Elijah leans over and kisses his temple softly before he speaks again. 

“And you don’t have to, right now all you should focus on is your own health getting back to how it once was, and the future of Helimire since… well the war is finally over.” Christopher’s head perks up at that a bit, his eyes growing wide ever so slightly. He looks to Elijah and the biggest smile forms on his face. 

“It is, oh that’s right!” He laughs and stands from the bed, moving to the large window in the room. 

“Christopher!” Comes three voices, Elijah, Morgan, and William all attempting to pull him back to the bed in the room once again, but Christopher ignores them and pushes back the curtains in the window that looks over Helimire proper. 

Below him in the city was a marvel, the word of the war that had been going on nearly a decade was finally over, had passed through the city like wildfire, and was now celebrating the marvelous joy. Christopher looked at the bright colored banners flying over the city and planted around it, people going about their day to day lives with more cheer and happiness than they’ve had in some time. Everyone in that room looks down on the city with a smile on their faces, both at the joy radiating from the city, and from Christopher himself, as he looks over the city he loves so much finally safe and sound once again. 

“How long has the celebration been going on?” Christopher asks, still looking out the window, hands on the frame as finally speaks. 

“Started yesterday, there’s still people mourning, but there's joy in it now, remembering the happy times and all that. I think it’ll be going on for some time now.” Morgan says, bumping her shoulder against her twins with a grin. 

“We’ll have to do something then, for everyone.” 

“I think we can come up with something.” William says, leaning up against the wall next to Morgan as he looks outside, but smiles gently at Christopher. 

“Good. Good.” Christopher nods, kneeling slowly down to sit in the alcove by the window, Elijah following and sitting close. 

“You know.” Elijah’s voice comes from behind Christopher, then his arms are wrapping around the older man's neck from behind and resting his chin on the top of his head. He still has to stand on his toes to at least do that even if he is taller than Christopher. “There’s a joy in your movements alone that I haven’t seen from you darling.” Christopher curls his hands around Elijah’s wrists and chuckles. 

The two of them are outside, the sun is setting over the Helimire ocean behind them, a party going on in the gardens just 50 feet in front of them. They took some time to stand off to the side to watch over people celebrating and being happy, another week after Christopher woke up and a decent event could be planned. Not that people weren’t already celebrating, just now it’s something more official. 

“I’m just happy things are moving forward once again, and that the corruption of those bastards are no longer. We can finally make Helimire the city I know it can be, to move forward.” Christopher turns his head and kisses Elijah’s cheek softly. 

“So what do you have planned next, now that I feel you can finally relax.” He hears Christopher hum for a moment. 

“Not sure, but I sincerely hope a wedding is in the future.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes, I think Mae and Morgan are thinking about it, something has to be coming sooner or later.” Christopher is grinning to himself and he breaks when Elijah pulls back and swats at his shoulder and scoffs a half offended thing. He starts laughing and has to hold himself up with his hands on his knees as he bends over, his laugh making his body shake. Elijah rolls his eyes and pulls his partner up and grabs his face in his hands and kisses him sweetly, slightly off due to Christopher’s giggles fading. 

“Glad you found that just so funny.” 

“Sorry, heart, I just couldn’t resist.” Christopher wraps his arms around Elijah and holds him close against his chest and kisses him again, soundly this time, nice and serious. “But I do mean us, finally, for the two of us.” 

“How soon?” Elijah asks. Christopher chuckles. 

“We’ll see, there’s still some things to do first, but soon enough. I won't make you wait much longer, I can promise you that.” 

“You better not.” 

“If he does I’ll just scoop him up.” William’s voice comes from near the party, coming closer as the two turn to look towards the voice. Christopher grins and tightens his grip on Elijah. 

“Oh no no. You may be the prince but this one is mine.” 

“Okay then.” William comes closer and wraps his arms around the both of them, pulling them both close. Christopher hums happily, pressed against two soft yet strong bodies. “How about we share?” 

“I think that works.” Both Elijah and Christopher say, grinning at the prince. 

[thekitchensnk]

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 22)

Rating: T Warnings: Violence - sadism, murder Pairing: Gin/Ran Part 1: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12 Part 2: Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21 Part 3: Chapter 22

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

What kind of beast are you, Ichimaru Gin?

What are you becoming?

--

--

--

(What could drive a man to kill a god?)

--

It is a cloudy night. There is not a star to be seen as he sits, his sword flat on his lap, and waits. The air is calm, the night is still, the sky is gray, and he waits and he waits and he waits whilst the moon ripens behind the clouds. The student barracks are empty. Everyone has long since made the journey home since graduation, to warm and joyous families keen to celebrate their success and the prospect of their glowing futures. The halls are silent.

(He had also made the long journey home the day before, out into the dark woods of the far flung districts of Rukongai. Such a journey - a journey which would take an ordinary person weeks of foot-travel - had taken him mere hours. But there had been no warm and loving family to return to, no celebration of his success. The house had been empty but for a letter written long ago on a torn piece of sack cloth.)

Empty.

This is good. There will be no witnesses - no one to see him leave. No one to see him return.

It would not do to be seen coming back from the site of a murder.

A lurid, jittery excitement coils up in him - the sort of excited anticipation a child feels on the day of their birthday. He tries to quell it, but he can’t. The occasion warrants more caution than this, more ritual sanctity. Everything rests on the outcome of tonight. If it were to go wrong… It is no excuse to play, to indulge himself in a little petty cruelty. He has to be quick; he has to be sharp. This murder is not for him- it is for her, and so he should treat it with the seriousness it deserves.

Everything he has done has been for her.

But, he cannot help but think, squirming with the excitement of it all, it will be fun to see how it goes.

He is a prodigy, a genius, a wonder child - no one has ever graduated the academy as quickly as him, not in a thousand years. His opponent (victim) is a seated officer, and not just that, but a third seat, third only in power to the Captain and Vice-Captain.

This might end up bein’ more difficult than I gave credit for, he muses. But he can do it. He knows he can.

After all, he has to.

He cannot dampen the small thrills running through him, the urge to whistle, the brightness shining in him. It is beyond him to feel any kind of remorse for the pain he is about to inflict. He will enjoy it too much, and for once, his cause is righteous.

Tonight he should be calm. Tonight he should be still. If tonight goes to plan, there will be only one man standing in between him and the satisfaction of his vengeance and his labours will almost be at an end.

The thought makes him giddy with a twinned delight - one part ecstasy in the anticipation of bloodlust, the other part a tenderness so soft it hurts.

He turns his attention to his sword in a bid to distract himself. It is a short blade, a blade perfectly sized for a child-murderer’s hands, and his face shines in the reflection in its blade.

Shinso. Shinso, he sings to his sword happily, keen to share his excitement with someone.

But if Shinso has something to say now, it is keeping it to itself. Gin waits a moment for a response, and then aims a mental kick at his sword.

It says nothing, and he frowns in annoyance.

The night before he had walked into the darkness in his mind, slipping down, down, down into the empty hole where his sword’s spirit dwells within him. The labyrinthine dark is as familiar to him now as the sight of his own hands. He had spent long sleepless nights at the academy learning its winding passages, its eerie, quiet dead ends, its blind and looping paths.

There are times still that he cannot help but feel like he has been swallowed whole, that he is wandering in the coiling, twisting insides of a snake.

There had been a figure in the darkness, the night before. It had sat there, its legs dangling impossibly into the thick darkness. They had kicked very slightly and childishly in the nothingness.

As he had walked closer, he had seen that its hair was amber-bronze, its skin sun-kissed and freckled, the light down of the hair on its arms golden.

He had held his breath for a moment, and then exhaled, a white grin fixed on his face. And then he had walked up to it.

It had turned, the thing wearing Rangiku’s face, and it had copied his bright smile. So often, it has her dimples. So often, it wears her beauty mark. (When he sits across from it, there are only black holes where there should be eyes.)

“Are we ready then?” Shinso had asked in Rangiku’s girlish voice, a voice like sunshine, its head tilting like hers had.

Gin wonders what it says about him that Shinso does this. Shinso does this, he thinks, to unsettle him- to hurt him- to get a response, maybe. Maybe because Shinso thinks it funny.

Maybe because Shinso is everything that he is, monstrous cruelty included.

Gin had given it a cursory glance, trying not to dwell on that eyeless face. He had squinted into the darkness resolutely. “Reckon so,” he had said to it.

“Do you know how we’re going to do it?” Rangiku’s voice had echoed cheerfully.

Rangiku would never sound so cheerful to be preparing for murder.

He had known. He had known the plan down to the smallest turn. He is not so confident in his ability to defeat a third seat that he hasn’t dwelt obsessively on the details, hasn’t spent sleepless nights dwelling darkly on how it might be done. In the end, he has decided to play it safe, play it conservative. This murder is not for him and so it needs to be done carefully. It needs to be done right.

“Same plan as last time.”

Shinso’s stolen face had fallen, and its stolen lips, pink and perfect, had stretched into a look of alien disgust. Rangiku’s mouth cannot twist like that. Her teeth are not that sharp. “That’s boring,” Rangiku’s voice had announced, and it had echoed as if coming from a mile away. “Boring.”

It was boring, but Gin had shrugged. “Everythin’ hinges on how tonight goes. Can’t fuck it up.”

The bottomless pits of Shinso’s empty eyes had snapped to him, snake-like. They bore into him, those empty sockets. Every time he looks at them, the memory of eyes soft and blue as forget-me-nots stirs in his soul, and the memory disquiets him. But Gin always stares back, undaunted.

“You’re going to fuck it up if you do it that way. He’s going to want a show.” Shinso had told him. It had seemed to find the thought suddenly funny. “He’s going to want to see a show, the sicko. Give him a show. Excite him. Let him see us, see us how we really are. Let him get a peek. That’ll grab him.”

The irony of calling anyone else a sicko had seemed lost on Shinso, but it was right, Gin had realised later. If he is to pull this off, he’s going to have to perform, he’s going to have to draw him in.

Seduce him, even.

“Think ya’ might be right on this one,” he had admitted reluctantly, and he frowns now, in the present, mulling it over. Let him see us, see us how we really are.

It is a troubling thought.

No signs of softness, no signs of weakness; never let them know where your heart lies. He had heard those words, in a different place, in a different life.

Shinso had padded towards him through the darkness until there had been scarcely any space between them. Its footsteps do not echo. The blackness it wraps itself in is gentle as velvet. It had pressed its (Rangiku’s Rangiku’s Rangiku’s) head against his own tenderly, and Gin had frozen. It has Rangiku’s hair, it has Rangiku’s face, but its skin is always so cold.

“Have you thought about my questions?” It had uttered with a smile. It had whispered in his ear, but there is no warm puff of air when Shinso speaks, no sound of breathing, just the sound of dust, a hiss. “Do you know what we are yet? It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back. Everything that happens now happens because you made it that way.”

It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back.

When he had looked into those black hollows, he had known what it was he had to do. He had known what he had to be.

He thinks he has begun to understand what he has to give up.

(But he hasn’t. Not really. Not yet.)

“I know.”

He had swallowed. There had been nothing more he could have said.

In the present, the excitement bubbling away in his chest finally dies down. He sighs and runs a hand through his fine-stranded hair, knowing Shinso to be right.

It had all started to become so complicated, somewhere along the line. When he had seen him, the man, Aizen, in the forest for the first time, it had been so simple.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him for what he has done. Kill him for even daring to touch her, his heart had screamed bestially.

Time had passed and he had tracked them all down, one by one, each of the animals that had laid their hands on her. But still Aizen lives, still Aizen thrives, and his heart rages now with impatience to see his vengeance wrought.

Aizen -

And one more.

But not for much longer.

It had taken so long already. Who knew what could have become of her in a year?

Unbidden, his mind drifts back to the letter she had left for him, dried mud and ash on a grey-brown sack, in a wooden hut and a shitty town, so, so far away.

Suddenly, it is too much effort to stay upright, and so he carelessly pushes Shinso from his lap and lets himself fall back against the tatami mat.

He had known that she would be devastated when he left her.

He’d left anyway.

It had been more important to him, at the time, to leave.

(That maybe, just maybe - he hadn’t cared enough to stay.)

The thought is small and ashamed.

He’d thought about her often when he’d been at the academy, on cold starless nights in shared dormitories where her hair did not tickle his nose and he didn’t have to manoeuvre around her clumsy, kicking legs in the night; where he had not woken in the night to screams that he alone had been able to soothe.

When his mind had turned to her - as had been inevitable because the thought of her had been as inescapable as gravity - guilt and remorse had twisted up inside him like a snake wrapping itself around his insides. It had been a novel feeling, guilt. He had not liked it then, and he doesn’t like it now.

It had always been a cruel thing, the sight of her crestfallen face as he left her, the way she would look dully at her hands and the way that the light would drop out of her. Something about it stung at him, and so he had tried bitterly to avoid thinking too long on how she was coping, what she doing, how she was faring.

It had been difficult, but having taught himself to steel himself against it, he finds it is the uncertainty now, the fact that he does not even know what she is doing, that she could be with anyone, which makes his heart do strange things.

His smile is strained.

I don’t even know where ya’ are anymore, he thinks distantly to himself. Did ya’ even exist? Or did I dream ya’ up to keep me company? Where are ya’ now, Rangiku?

“I’m not angry that you left,” she had written for him. “Not all of the time, anyway. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I hate you. But most of the time I’m just sorry that you felt like you had to leave. I just wish I knew why.”

“Thank you”.

“You’ll always be my friend.”

My friend, he thinks fervently. My only friend.

He sighs.

The letter had just been further proof of what he’d always known: that when all was accounted for, when all was tallied up in the book of their lives, she was a better person than he was, and always would be. She had that elusive ability to care for others, and the even more elusive quality to forgive.

It wasn’t that she didn’t get angry.

(He shakes his head ruefully at the thought. He had suffered too many punches to the arm to think anything otherwise).

It was just that her anger had always been quick and passionate - fierce, but quick to burn itself out, gone almost as soon as it had arrived. She could be shouting and throwing things at him one minute, but she’d be joking with him the next, all wrongs forgiven as if he’d never done anything wrong in the first place.

Would it be naïve to hope that he could be forgiven this time?

He has rarely felt remorse for anything in his life. Remorse means caring that you have wronged another person. Remorse means having the ability to know, know in your heart, that there is such a thing wrong in the first place.

But Ichimaru Gin does not care. He lacks that compass inside of him, that invisible magnetism, which seemed to guide everyone else towards the good. He has heard talk of evil, but it had always seemed to him a label which people gave to the things they disliked, to the things that caused them disgust or pain.

It is still an alien sensation to him, this prickling, this strange curling and twisting inside of him, the feeling of guilt. If he’s honest, he’s still not even sure he knows what guilt is, but it hurts him to have hurt her and he figures that must lie close to the essence of it.

Rangiku was considerate of other people, he thinks stubbornly. Though she had hidden it well, she’d had a melancholy streak in her that ran a mile wide and as deep as the blue sea. It was born of abandonment, he muses, of fear that she would be left alone again. She was always considerate of other people. Too considerate, he thinks to himself. When something went wrong, she always sought to smooth over the edges, to please people. As far as he was concerned, they could die in a ditch.

She’d have done anything to avoid being abandoned.

He’d done it to her anyway.

(Simply, shamefully – it had been more important to him to leave than it had been for him to stay. There was nothing more to it than that.)

Had she managed to convince herself that he’d left because of something she’d done?

The thought twists at his insides. It troubles him.

It has been a year since he had left. He had eschewed all academy holidays in order to concentrate on his goal, had endured the braying of the idiot sons of Seireitei noble families, had shut himself in libraries night after night, had sweated and bloodied himself and ran himself hoarse on the training field, all to graduate as quickly as possible. All to murder Aizen Sosuke in cold blood for all that he had done to her.

Does she still have nightmares? Has she learnt to fight ‘em off without me?

Does she still-

He cannot bring himself to complete the thought.

(-need me?)

But him?

He has grown strong without her.

He will be graduating as a seated officer. He is a legend, a prodigy, the first person to graduate from the academy in a year.

Tonight - tonight he will carry out his plan. He is a boy, a child. No one will suspect him. No one will know. Everything will go as he wants it to.

It is an easy thing to convince himself that it will be easy. Aizen will never see his true nature, or at least, he amends to himself, not enough of it to know what he intends. The man’s blood will dye Shinso scarlet soon enough, even if not tonight, and Gin will laugh and laugh and laugh to see it gush out of the man and to see his corpse crumpled on the ground, like trash.

The excitement is back, the lurid satisfaction, and he lets it bubble away merrily inside of him.

He has found his smile again, and it is like a sickle.

He hums to himself in pleasure, and rocks forward to a sitting position. He grabs Shinso from off the floor, and he jumps to his feet jauntily.

So what if it has taken longer than he had planned?

Nothin’ worth doin’ was ever done easily, he thinks to himself and he tries not to think of the heartbreak on her face as he left.

It is not as complicated as he had made it out to be. It is simple. He will steal back what was taken, and he will return it to her, and then he will return himself to her, and it will be over.

Over.

And then-

Unbidden, the words of what feels like a life time ago rise up in him. His pale fingertips ghost over his lips for a second.

She had rushed the words out, trying to explain herself to him.

"I could never hate you completely, not really. Not if you tickled me for hours, not if you made me dig up the garden and dangled every worm in my face, not if you made fun of every other person on earth-" her breath had hitched, and he had watched her, dumbfounded "-not even if you left me, not even then. You gave me this birthday, and for as long as I live, I'll wake up today and think of you because you saved me and you gave me a home."

He remembers every word. It has been over a year, and yet he remembers it as if she’d said it yesterday, this morning, an hour ago.

How could he not? She had-

(-kissed him. It had carved away at his insides like a disease, rent apart his chest, ripped him to pieces. The memory sat in the hole it had hollowed out, flush in the space between his heart and his soul, reigning like a king over his body.)

He will never again be rid of it.

It had been like a promise; it had been like a vow.

Nothing more had ever been said about it.

What did it mean? What did it mean? What did she meant by it?

But still that memory warms him. He can feel the lingering traces of the dizzying delight he had felt in that moment each time he closes his eyes and remembers it. His lips quirk upwards.

An eerie, tuneless whistle emerges from his mouth. He cannot help himself, not when the world is so alight with possibilities.

He has murder in his heart, a sword in his hand, a whistle in his mouth, and the ghost of her kiss on his lips.

He smiles.

Time to go.

--

It is a masterpiece of theatre.

He coaxes the man into the woods with a few wide-eyed, warbling words of praise, some pathetic, snivelling dross, all dewy-eyed innocence. The man doesn’t question it for a second.

When they are safely hidden by the canopy, safely ensconced in the darkness, he strikes. The air heaves and writhes with his killing intent, and the third seat crumples beneath the pressure like he is made of paper. A paper man. Goin’ ta’ fold him up and put him in my pocket, Gin hums to himself. He smiles brightly.

Nah, goin’ ta’ rip him up.

He is on his hands and knees in discomfort, retching into the soil, thick, suffocating saliva forced from his mouth. The sweat trickles from his brow, leaving a sheen; the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, mimicking the response of all prey since time immemorial. The man is frightened. It is written all over his face.

He should be. He’s going to die.

The third seat tries to rise, but he can’t.

“Come on!” Gin cheers him on. “Ya’ the third seat, so act like it. Come on up and get me, Mr Third Seat! You can do it!”

The man grits his teeth and lets out an inhuman roar of effort, pushing with all his might to try to get to his feet.

“So close now!”

The man has made it off his hands. Gin makes an appreciative noise and claps his hands at him, delighted. He has only the most rudimentary knowledge of that thing called empathy, but if he were hard pressed to guess, he would say right now that the man must be feeling something akin to hope.

The third seat stumbles low to the ground, and Gin cheers for him.

And then, his expression never shifting for a moment, white grin still stretched across his face, he aims a vicious kick straight to his head. The man’s nose bursts across his face.

He collapses to the ground again, making a low, heaving noise. Gin wonders vaguely whether he’s crying.

“Oh no!” Gin sings at him. “Whoopsadaisy! Ya’ve fallen over, Mr Third Seat! How clumsy of ya’!” He shakes his head at him theatrically. “How clumsy! Fallen over ya’ own feet!”

The man seems to have given up on trying to stand with Gin’s spiritual pressure beating down at him again and again like a hammer against an anvil, and so he begins to crawl, hands and knees, across the forest floor, blood gushing from the splatter that had been his nose.

“Oh no, no, no,” Gin says to him, grin wide. “Let me help you up! Mighty third seats shouldn’t go crawlin’ through the forest on their hands and knees. That’s for bugs.” Something burns in his eyes for a second, but it is gone the minute it appears. “Or vermin.”

The third seat looks back with fear-filled eyes. He inhales and exhales rapidly, in the broken breathing of the terrified. His hands are scratched from where broken branches have torn at them.

“So stubborn!” Gin bends over, wiping his hands on his black shihakusho, and drags the man to his feet by the collar. “Up we get! Was that so difficult, askin’ for a bit of help?”

The third seat is not stupid enough to fail to see where this is going. His face twists into an animal snarl. He has realised what should have been obvious since the beginning: that he will be permitted to leave with Gin’s permission, or not at all. His stupid, ugly curtains of hair fall into his face as he grabs for his sword. His beady little eyes have blown wide with hatred.

Just try. Just ya’ try.

He tries.

His zanpakuto comes free from its sheath, and he swings it brutishly, clumsily, at Gin’s side. Shinso is in his hand in a second, and he knocks the third seat’s blow aside with an almost clumsy laziness.

“’S not very nice to take your anger out on other people like that, Mr Third Seat,” he says reproachfully. “’S not my fault you can’t get up.” There’s something hysterically funny about that. His grin widens.

The third seat swings again, and again, and again, until he is trembling and sobbing with exertion.

“Shhh, shhh,” he soothes. “Shhh. It’s nothin’ to cry over! ‘S just a fall. ‘S just a fall. We all fall down sometimes. Gotta tell ya’ self it doesn’t hurt.”

He pauses dramatically, looking behind him to the thinning tree line. Aaah, he thinks coldly and he turns back to the man. Good timin’.

“This though,” he says, turning Shinso over in one hand casually, “this is goin’ ta’ hurt like hell’.”

He pushes the blade through the man’s stomach, slowly, slowly.

Shinso is sharp, but the organs of a grown man are thick and spongey, filled with gristle and muscle and gore and blood. It explodes outwards in a thick stream, making his hands and his chest slick, and as he slices upwards, it spurts in a hot, unexpected shower across his face, the wetness. He can hear the dull slap of the man’s guts as they slide out and hit the ground, the shocked intake of the man’s last breaths.

There is no performance now.

He lifts the man by his collar, still lodged on his blade, and looks at him, watching his eyes cloud over.

It is a strange thing, a heady thing, to watch. A person is never more themselves than in extremis, never more honest in their desires, in their choices. Those categories called good and evil- how easily they seem to be forgotten in the overwhelming impetus to survive. How much more, he thinks, people seem to resemble himself in their final moments. How clear it seems then, that there is no good, no evil- only people. Beautiful, ugly, strange people.

The man’s eyes were brown. In death, they are black.

It is done.

He shuts his eyes for a moment and raises his head towards the sky.

Behind his eyes, he sees her as he had first seen her, collapsed on the ground, the man's hand buried to the elbow in her chest, taking something vital and shining from her. Rangiku's yukata had been bunched up around her thighs, and her face had been wan and marred with bruises like storm clouds. As the man rose, he had cupped her face almost tenderly, caressing her cheek. And then he had slapped her, and the sound had rung out through the deserted road. There had been dirt in her golden hair.

The nightmares she had suffered, how she had struggled to walk for days after, the blood on her face and her fat, split lip-

The man had turned to his companions afterwards, and he had laughed.

He had laughed.

There is fury boiling in him. He has forgotten the performance.

Gin only regrets that he cannot kill the man twice, regrets that he had not thought to inflict more pain while he still had the chance. Overcome by rage, he sends another kick crashing into the man’s face, and then another, breath hissing through his teeth.

Overhead, a gap forms in the clouds. The moon emerges; it is eerily bright. He readies another furious blow.

“Ah…”

And then he stills, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose.

The voice, rich and lazy and loathsome, issues from behind him. He had wanted an audience, and now he has one. He had almost forgotten in all the excitement.

“They weren’t exaggerating then. I’d heard, but I had not given much credence to such inflated rumours. A mistake, obviously. What’s your name?”

Gin turns, and as he does so, the moonlight falls on him like a spotlight. The blood, which had seemed black in the shadows, has painted half his face red, like a mask. His fine hair is soaked with it, and it has separated into damp strands. He looks at the man’s face.

Aizen’s eyes are warm, and honey brown, and so gentle.

Except they aren’t.

Gin has known enough monsters to recognise a face put on for polite society when he sees one. He has seen this man obliterate people, seen them blur into thin air, like tea in hot water. He doesn’t dare buy for a second the look he sees on this man’s face.

He looks closer.

Cruelty. Amusement. Intrigue. Hunger.

(The eye of a fellow connoisseur; the eye of a fellow artist.)

(The thought sickens him.)

He steels himself for what he’s about to do. His heart fights against his ribs to burst out of his chest. He has never done anything so terrifying.

(He thinks of her.)

Perform. Perform, he thinks desperately. Keep his attention while you have it. And he lets his most blood-chilling smile stretch across his face, a bright rictus grin.

“Good evenin’, Vice-Captain Aizen!” he calls out sweetly, the third seat’s guts at his feet. He can feel the blood starting to soak through into his tabi. “Lovely moon we’ve got out tonight.”

Nothing like surprise crosses Aizen’s face. If anything, he looks rapt- darkly pleased by Gin’s response.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, before smiling. “You’re even better than I’d heard. I’ll ask you again. What is your name?”

It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back, Shinso had told him. Everything that happens now happens because you made it that way.

“For as long as I live, I'll wake up today and think of you because you saved me and you gave me a home.”

Gin takes a deep breath, and hopes that Aizen will blame it on the exertion of murder.

“Gin. Ichimaru Gin.”

There can be no turning back.