#hk one-shot

[ashyronfire]

Aloud, I Pray For Calmer Seas

Title: Aloud, I Pray For Calmer Seas Rating: T Characters: The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel, The Knight Warnings: Mild Body Horror, Suicidal Ideology, Hurt No Comfort, Second Person POV, Nebulous Narrative, It/Its Pronouns For The Knight

Summary:

It means to set you free. There is nothing left of you to save, you think. (But you should not be thinking at all.)

Author’s Notes:

In July of last year, I read a fanfic that I became obsessed with. I basically devoured over 150k words in a single night. I couldn’t put it down. I started writing fanfiction for Hollow Knight in large because of that fic. The first one I finished was Eyes. The first one I started was this. Imagine my surprise when the author of that fic not only went on to read my works, but also became one of my dear friends.

I’ve been too scared to even tell you about this project, let alone show it to you until it was done, @dropout-ninja. Forgive me. I hope this surprise pleases you. This was originally in third person but since I’ve been experimenting more with perspectives/tenses/styles, I figured why not spend an hour converting the entire damn thing to second person.

Aloud, I Pray For Calmer Seas || AO3

Aloud, I Pray For Calmer Seas

It is brave, you think, looking down the line of your broken body. It is braver than you are, to stand in this place and not break under the weight of the sea. The seals hold you fast; you are chained. It does not break them immediately but instead stands to gaze up at you. It watches you with a quiet intensity. There are no words exchanged between the two of you and you are certain that is for the better: this other vessel, small and unruined by the world, is perhaps the empty creature that you should have been, and if that is the case, you will not ruin it by trying words.

You could not make them even if you wanted to. Every thought that you have is filled with sickly-sweet burning that runs so deep within that you wonder if you would ever be able to put the flame out. You are not sure that you want to, even should the opportunity arise. Is this not your punishment, after all, for your failure? Is this not what you deserve, for the masquerade that has cost your king and kingdom everything? To burn eternally? 

It inclines its head to you. It looks side-to-side, and then back up to where you hang lifelessly in chains. You are a corpse that has yet to properly rest, with little difference from the husks that wander outside and attack anyone who passes by on sight. You are certain that there will be no difference, if it should release you. You will fall upon it with your nail and it will be forced to put you out of your misery: misery that you should not have been able to feel, misery that spelled your own ruin, misery that cost Hallownest everything.

It holds up one hand. You gaze down at it, but your vision is a hazy thing, damaged from the pustules that rest over top of your eyes like a veil of sunrise. You can make out that it does not have proper fingers yet and why should it? Without your king’s light, it has never had a need to grow.

(Plants need light. You are part Root, one of three parents, and so you need it, too, in order to flourish and bloom. There is precious little of it here in Hallownest now, but once it was brilliant, pale and cool and welcoming – you remember; it was under that light that you grew, that you flourished, that you matured. It does not have that luxury.)

It touches you. You try to respond, but your legs do not work. You are numb and what movement you can manage is agonised; plagued, horrifically, by the plight of hanging for so long and with so little movement.

It is a comfort, you think, to know that when it releases you to take your place, you will be put down like the dying caricature of purity that you have always been. 

You wish that your executioner did not wear so familiar a face, though. It bears the gaze of someone you knew once and it is painful. You do not recall that face with clarity, but it brings to mind a fear you have no name for and that in and of itself is upsetting.

A word rises through your mind, and then another, and another: It is weak. 

Not the vessel before you, no. Yourself. You are weak and you are afraid. You are not brave enough to refer to yourself outside of third person in cohesive words. No, feelings and images are easier. They have always been but you do not dare call either of them to yourself.

There is something inside this one who stands before you, a titan in a diminutive shell, that is both frightening and welcoming. Cold and terrifying. Warm and inviting.

( – broken shells shattering, so very loud, against stones that defy all reason to fly, that hang heavily in the air – not you, never you, you are faster and you are stronger and you will fight your way to that light; did you push them or did they fall on their own? did it make any difference either way? do you remember? do you know? ) 

She stirs behind your eyes. You feel her, a nest of maggots writhing within your skull and seeping down through your remaining arm and into the cavity where growths linger beneath your armour and cape. You are a ruined altar on which she is worshipped.

You are the vessel.

Both the prison that contains her and the one that grants her eyes into a world that she is largely forgotten in. 

The Temple of the Black Egg is covered in wicked veining and filled with a miasma that could suffocate a lesser being: it chokes in your throat with each breath you take, soundless and heaving. You watch it. You let your gaze follow it, the quiet creature so alike to you and so different. 

It is leaving. It does not release you.

You wonder if it will come back. 

You hope that it will not. 

-

You are dreaming.

You can tell when you dream, although it is always hazy. Sometimes it is sweet memories, places you recall that remind you of a time before your imprisonment. Sometimes it is even your father the king that you see and you are at your weakest in those times.

You have prostrated yourself before a memory enough that you think that you can tell the difference. She delights in proving you wrong by unravelling them time and again, until you fray. You have not broken enough to let her free but the both of you know that it is really just a matter of time. A when, not an if. She uses those sweet memories like a lure and you bite every single time, in spite of knowing better, or perhaps – perhaps because you know better. Perhaps some part of you longs for the punishment that you know would come if you faced Him and He had to see what became of His beloved Hallownest at your tender mercies. Your failures. Your mistakes. Your flaws. 

You do not deserve compassion and you certainly do not deserve to be free. You are the cause of the ruins.

She speaks to you sometimes, to remind you of that. She also speaks to you sometimes to suggest that she would forgive you. It is a lie and you do not want her forgiveness. You do not want anything from her at all.

This dream is strange. It is not at all like the ones that you are accustomed to, where you break under tender ministrations and are reminded, time and again, that all of this could be avoided if you would just let go; if you would just release her and yourself in the process. You harbour no delusions and she does not pretend that you will live through the ordeal.

(you want to die. you want it to be over. you want the pain to stop. you were never meant to survive. that you yet live is testament to how much you have failed and how far you have fallen, how far you are still falling – falling, falling, the sounds of masks breaking, crashing against stones that are lifted into the air and float, in a place with no light but there was light, there was His light, and He was everything to you, and He made you whole and He made you strong and He would never forgive– 

forgive me forgive me forgive me

it should not have been a me –) 

Your armour is polished and shining silver. You have both of your arms. These are not things that you know to be accurate to the waking world. You are whole: the entire shining package, riddled with flaws, feelings and tainted by your own mistakes. You are the Vessel but you are not Pure and you have no voice with which to scream about the atrocities that will come as a result of this mistake. Of your mistake, for it is your fault, it could never be His. The problem lies within you, and you alone. You wish to atone. You wish to fix it. 

Why are you whole?

Why are you here?

It is not her realm, but it is golden and it glitters and you want to rip the pillars apart with claws and tendrils of void until everything below you is but dust. It is bright and you are frightened. Light is an enemy, you recognise this: light represents her. (It represents Him, too, but this is harsh light, you rationalise, and you are so, so scared–)

You think you might be screaming in your head. You think if someone could peek behind the eyes (which work, you realise belatedly: as if you never succumbed to her at all), they would find themself deafened by the words that you are not supposed to know or have, by the thoughts you were never meant to possess, and by the fear that is a tangible thing that takes the form of dawn breaking over a mountain forgotten to the annals of time. 

It changes, then. You are familiar with the manipulation of dreams and them shifting around you is not at all strange anymore. Your nail is in your hands, resting, and you stand looking down at the floor as polished black shell rolls out an ominous welcome: come to me to fail to die. Live an eternal masquerade as something you are not and know that you brought it upon yourself, that you made this choice and you would make it again and again, nothing would change, because this is what you were bred for, this is your purpose and your destiny.

You are being watched and it is not by her. 

There is movement behind you and you turn to see the other of your kind. It is back, but it is not your pathetic, broken body that it beholds this time. It sees you as you once were, as the Pure Vessel primed to fight (to lose against) the blinding light of morning.  It stops to look at you and you are overcome with conflicting feelings. You do not want it there. You do not want it to continue this folly. It can only end badly for it. And what? What ifit does win? What then? You will be free.

That is more terrifying than captivity. 

Your cage’s bars are your own making.

It turns its head down. You recognise the gesture as a bow. You understand, in that moment, two very real and agonising facts: that it is not pure either, and that it has no intentions of taking your place.

It intends to fight through you to the embodiment of fury that you hold within. It is willing to cut you down to do so, but only in dreams. This is why it left. This is why it did not release you from your confines. This is what drove it here – to this place beyond the waking world, where it faces you not in your body that will break under its nail as surely as leaves shatter under the weight of a stag, but in your strongest form. And yet – yet –

If it should succeed, it will face her, and she will hurt it, too. She will break it, as she broke you, and it will be your fault.

( – let it fall once – let it fall so close to the edge so that you did not have competition, so that He would not see – you owe it better – )

You bow back. It is only polite. You were raised by a king, by knights, in the Pale Court 

( – that should have been your home; that would have been had fate dealt you different cards. did they ever love you, could they? do you deserve to be? you do not. a failure deserves to be discarded and forgotten and that is what you are. never forget. hallownest’s blood is in your throat and you are choking on it, asphyxiating without a need to breathe; had you a mouth, you could cough it up all over the floor and have a contrast worthy of respect – you think it would be orange, though, for there is nothing left in you that is not – ) 

and you know all about manners and civility. You never needed them before. You were a statue; a pretty, elegant thing in the corner of rooms, talked over as if you were not there and you listened, you took it all in, you learned. You were not supposed to do any of those things, but osmosis trains a mind, and you have one, even though by all rights and design you should not. You would apologise for that, if you had the capability. To Him. To the thousands of your siblings dead in a place untouched by time. 

But not to the one across from you. It has a mind, too. You are not to blame for that, are you? Is it your fault, as the other weights are? Your frustration manifests in the form of a scream without sound and the armour around you is glass; it shatters, it trembles, it breaks. Time has worn through its efficiency, too. 

It dashes forward, its nail held fast, and you retaliate by raising your own. The metal sings in the quiet of the arena and the glowing white of the seals is haunting. It throws shadows over the floor. It throws shadows over you, too, and you use embrace them.

You teleport.

It does not know how to do that and you are certain that you blindside it when you launch into a forward slash.

You have not won in a very long time. You have not even come close to winning in what feels like an eternity. When did you last catch her off guard? But you have surprised it and that puts you at an advantage. You push it.

You call Soul. 

( – and who had to die to give it to you? you, who have been sapped of all of your strength, who have had it so elegantly drained from you? are you sure it is soul anymore? can you tell the difference between essence and soul any longer? would you know? is there anything left inside of you that she hasn’t ripped apart and used herself to fill in the cracks with? you writhe, you burn, you scream in silence and she cares not, she cares not –

what care has anyone for an empty, hollow thing?

the hollow knight.

you do not deserve to be called that.

you do not deserve to be remembered.

you must win. )

You use that Soul to summon tiny throwing nails that fan out around you in a crescent. Your opponent (your sibling –) dodges under them to slash at you and you raise your nail to parry. It leaps into the air, dancing as if it owns it, on wings of Soul and starlight and it soars overhead.

It slashes and it hits you; you recoil and leap away.

Nails rise up from the floor. It is prepared for that attack; it dodges artfully (it must have seen similar) before vaulting across the arena toward you. You attack again. 

It becomes a dance that should be merry; that should be therapeutic. It is not. There is screaming metal and the rising desperation within you to save it, to stop it from condemning itself to your fate, and to save yourself. You want to die, you think, but you fight like there is still life left in you because terror gives way to resolve and resolve is the one thing that has always been yours. It is the only thing she cannot steal from you, no matter how much she tries and no matter how much undulating beneath the shell her terrible light does. She cannot undo what makes you you. She cannot rewrite your core, and your core is defined by devotion.

To Him.

And now to it, though you suspect it does not know. You are fighting it, after all. You likely seem an obstacle to its eyes.

You would beg its forgiveness – you would prostrate yourself before it, too, had you the capabilities. Let the waves of the sea within its small form crash into you until you are swept away and all that makes you yourself becomes a blank slate. 

But you are a stain and you will spread your pain. There is nothing that can cleanse the sin of your existence. 

It drags on, the fight. You try to heal and spheres of soul keep it from approaching you when you focus. As the duration extends and you are forced to block more and more attacks, you become increasingly frightened, and it manifests in your void. There are tendrils now that you call sometimes, the tempered solid of your shell becoming pliable like the void that you truly are. You use them to keep it at a distance.

You land several hits. It has to heal, too. 

But in the end, you lose.

( you always lose. when was the last time you won? )

You bow your head and wait for a finishing blow. You wonder if you will awaken. You are not sure that you want to. What has the waking world ever offered you but pain? You are crippled by shame and disgust with yourself; even in your prime, before the Infection took everything from you, you are no match for this other vessel. It is what you should have been and you are nothing in comparison to the vast sea that makes up its being.

It touches your face with tiny nubs and you remember.

Oh, you remember, and you hate that you do: you know now why you fear the dark as much as the light, for the dark has every reason to be angry with you for forsaking it and it – it stands before you, a tiny form that basks a fury so deep to drown in.

It is not angry with you. (It should be.) It does not want your pain. (It should.) It is doing this for you.

You wish that it would not.

It presses its forehead to yours. It holds you and for a moment, the terrible shrieking in your mind that is your own and not hers, is silenced. You know a kind of peace that you have not recalled in so long that it feels foreign. You welcome it and lay your head against its; you touch it with the ends of your claws and the fear returns like a tidal wave. It means to ascend. Light dances over your shell and you lift your gaze skyward. You know what melody comes next: the song’s crescendo as it – your sibling, this other vessel – leaps up. 

You are waking up. You are afraid of that, too. Hope has ever been your enemy and you are a stone sinking into waters deeper than you could ever hope to understand.

You do not want it to win. You do not want it to lose. 

( you should not be wanting at all. ) 

-

You ‘wake,’ if it can even be called that. Spellwork unfurls around you like a cloak of light in the darkness. The sound of the chains that bind you into the air is sinister: they creak and groan. You allow yourself to look at them as much as your position will allow. There is a fight happening elsewhere, but you cannot see or hear it; it is connected to you, though, for the burning light within is silent and still. Occupied, instead, by another shadow, one who she does not know as well and on whom her tricks do not work.

It feels as though it lasts forever and you know the second that it is over. Your chains snap, all at once, and you tumble toward the ground, a flightless creature crippled by time and the agonies of your experience.

You land roughly. You hear your shell crack under the strain and you bow your head.

It has won. It has done what you could not, in spite of your best efforts. You will live.

But do you even want to? 

[spacey-xannabelle]

I realize I seem to have some sort of pattern when it comes to indie games I consume ffghbdf

Bonus:

[sp1resong]

tfw you're about to be sacrificed on false pretenses in the name of an unattainable goal. "Reblog" if this is relatable to you

[grollow]

watch you lose

Title: watch you lose Rating: M Characters: The Hollow Knight, The Radiance Warnings: Disturbing Content, Trauma Bonding, First Person POV, Prequel (sort of) Author's Notes: This is canon to White and Gray, technically, and was written as a gift for @astorichan for Elegies of Hallownest's Secret Santa. Happy holidays, my friend! <3

watch you lose on AO3. “At the rate that we are going, we will die here together like this, you and I,” she says.

I ignore her, drifting in a state somewhere between waking and the anguish of sleep. In this state, she cannot reach or touch me, but her words are an insidious whisper that brushes under my skin like the diminutive scales that so resemble fur. She would have the world think that she is soft, but I know better. She is the edges of claws that scrape and scratch, and she leaves everything bleeding underneath them.

I prefer this state. I can see the world around me, a witness through the windows to history unfolding, but never a participant. This has always been my role. Never a participant, always a spectator. I have watched Hallownest crumble around me, bits and pieces rotting away as proof of my flaws. I have watched my king’s palace vanish under the weight of his own failure, disappearing like a mirage; sometimes, I can even glimpse it in the distance, and she says that is because it is here, because he has joined us in this eternal prison.

Like us, he is a spectator.

Like us, he is dead without truly dying.

We are corpses that have forgotten what it means to be dead. We are animated not by the essence that inhabits our body but by the spite that drives us: emotions like blood strangling out whatever light might have remained in the two of them.

I have always been a dark thing. I suppose that is to my benefit.

“You could end the pain we are both enduring,” she tells me.

My reflection is a passive thing, void obscuring it on the shell that makes up the floor. The chains that bind us in the air have long lost their shine. Like my armour.

(Like me.)

She deludes herself, as I often do, that we might some day see freedom outside of these halls. Were I to be set free of my binds, I doubt my body would animate properly. There are great crevices in my carapace where infection has boiled over, eating away at tempered void. The most egregious of these is a great hulking furrow that jots along my shoulder where my missing arm should be. It drives down deep and is, at times, painful. I can see the illumination of pustules growing in place of where the void has been burned away. They unsettle me, raising bile in a stomach that I did not know that I possessed.

(I have a mouth. I have always had a mouth. Mouths are conducive to stomachs; they are used to consume food, though I have never needed any—

Hunger notwithstanding.

I have ever been starving.

The void within me longs to devour all that it sees. I hold it in check, as I always have.

Would it be void that came up, if I succumbed to the writhing in my guts, like invisible claws twisting them to-and-fro, tying what insides my third parent did not destroy into tense, tight little knots?)

I cannot feel my legs. I have not been able to in a very long time.

“Let me set us both free, my shadow,” she pleads, drawing me back. I can feel her wings like the soft of feathers wrapping around me. “It needn’t be one or the other. I would miss you—”

I do not answer her in words, but in a feeling: a hot rush of stubborn refusal that manifests like ice through me. I drown her light in my shadows, and she recoils, hissing shrilly. 

“I will miss you,” she finishes.

There is nothing to miss, I say without words, pulling my void like a noose tighter around her throat. She struggles, fighting back, and the course of sunlight through me makes us both scream in mutual agony—her from my freezing darkness and me from the searing that rips through me, settling in welts that fill with fluid within my eye sockets.

It is a scream that reverberates through the void. All creatures of my kind can hear it, but none can answer. I am alone.

(I made that choice when I left them behind. I am selfish. I was willing to climb out of the Abyss over the corpses of my siblings, no matter the cost. And I was willing to sacrifice it all—

Hallownest. Myself. The lives of thousands of bugs.

I wanted his acknowledgment. I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to succeed—)

“You never could have. The fact that you wanted to is proof of that. But fine, fine. When death takes you, I will be free. I can be very patient when I need to be.”

The light of my eyes pulses in time with her heartbeat. The arteries that sprawl across the cavern ceiling are perfectly in sync with them.

She has never been patient in her life.

-

From the moment of my conception, I have been wed to her. The ties that bind us are far stronger than that of matrimony and impossible to break. I was molded to be her creature. Try as she might, she can never escape a shadow that bears her shape—and that is all that I will ever amount to.

Still, it is entertaining to listen to her wish that it be otherwise.

She would no more choose this than I, she claims. But she forgets.

I did make this choice. I told myself it was for him. I told myself it was for the Pale Gift that I left behind. I told myself that I had enough strength within to succeed.

We are both fools and liars. I am, at least, aware of my failings.

They are all that make up what remains of me.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

NO.

-

There is another like me.

There is another and it has come for me; it has answered a scream from the two of us to set us free and I recognise it, I know those horns, I know, and I do not deserve, I do not want, I do not want to be saved—

There is another there is another there is another

Kill the empty one.

There is another like me there is another like me there is another

Kill the empty one.

It is her voice, I tell myself. It is her command issued to force her slaves, mindless as they are, animated by her power, to attack.

I would never.

(I want to. I want to rip it apart.

She is mine, she is mine, she is mine. This is my task, this is my burden, these are my shackles to bear, and I would not have her be taken from me, not like everything else, I have never had anything that is mine, I have never had anything, she is all that I have—

Go. Go. Go.

It should have died.

Like the rest of them.)

The frenzied feeling inside of me is a swelling thing. It shivers in my guts. It settles in as numbness at the tips of my fingers. He has cursed me. He has left me to watch the world, watch it die around me, watch my failure unfold on the stage, the curtain raised in a final act, Hallownest’s requiem in harmony with my screams. I cannot look away. I cannot stop myself from watching my sibling’s journey; I cannot tear my focus to something else, anything to ease the terror that surges through limbs that have long stopped aching because I no longer feel anything physically to begin with.

Run, I want to scream.

Leave, I want to beg.

(Save—

Save who? Me?

I don’t deserve it.

If it comes here, I will fail—

If it comes here, it will take my place and I do not want to—)

I cannot see her. I can feel her writhing within me, though. I can no longer tell where I end and she begins and that is for the better.

I think, perhaps, that I love her. She shaped me into something else; she moulded me into her creature, and she has always seen me. Where others bore witness to a monster in the shell of the king’s misbegotten offspring, she saw the writhing shadows and knew the potential that lay within. She sees me.

I think, perhaps, that I hate her for all of that, too. For how dare she look into my eyes and know my secrets—how dare she rummage through my mind to find where my scars are—how dare she reach out with tenderness.

“I know what it feels like to be abandoned by family,” she’d whispered one day, when we were newly acquainted, as if she could understand my pain.

She knew nothing about me.

She knows everything about me now.

She knows that I will bite every hand outstretched in kindness. She knows that mine are words edged in nails, that my heart is wrapped in razor wire and that to love me is to drown. She is caught in my maelstrom, as I am in hers. She burns everything that she touches. She convinces herself that she has been abandoned, but I know—for I know her secrets, surely as she knows mine.

One who burns down their house cannot complain about a lack of home.

But she loves me, she thinks, in the only way that she has ever known how to. She would break me into pieces to fit her shape and she would see nothing wrong with that. That tendency is why she is alone, I know.

But void is without form, and I can bend, I can twist, I can adapt.

I will never break.

This is the kind of love that I deserve.

For being a failure. For being selfish. For choosing to believe in a lie, to perpetuate it, to walk knowingly into a task I could never succeed at. My false faith has cost Hallownest everything. Who would dare love someone so wretched? Someone equally so.

We orbit one another. We will both kill the other given a chance. And then we will mourn the other’s absence horribly. We cannot exist without one another.

I would die with her. I want to die with her.

(I want to die. But not alone. No, never alone. Come with me. This is our tomb—together.)

-

Kind, gentle Isma falls first, of the Great Knights, and that is both heart wrenching and unsurprising. Ever has her nature been one of kindness, of compassion, of consideration; ever has she been the warmth that seeps through the Palace when none else could reach. As Hallownest withers beneath a rot so deep as to infect the very soil, its blossom turns her blooms to the ground, and she is consumed by the very vines that she once commanded.

I mourn her.

It is noble Hegemol who falls second, in the service of our king. The infection lays claim to him, ravaging his shell. He is buried in his armour high above the kingdom, to watch over from above; his is a sacrifice mourned by all.

I mourn him.

She tells me that she loves me as we watch my home fall apart. She tells me that this is not my fault; she reassures me that I am not to blame for failing, for no living thing could ever do what was commanded of me, and I do not respond. Her wings hold me tight, embrace warm, and the shadow within me surges, aching to devour.

Dreams are life essence, and the void will always long to smother out life, until nothing but itself remains.

Until it is whole again.

It can never be. Too many fragments have been broken away, stolen, thieved in the night—

I am one of those pieces.

I want to rend her with my maw. I want to bury my face in her feathers and sob.

The whole world knows that I have failed now. The whole world knows that I am flawed. Only death comes for them now.

-

She hates me, she tells me, whenever I refuse her. She reminds me of my failures, of the things that I have wrought upon Hallownest. “Your fault,” she reminds me. “You chose this. You could have done something different.” Never the same argument but it is the same thought in essence, and it needn’t really be voiced. She is right. I chose this. I caused this.

Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure.

I do not long for freedom. My sibling comes. My sibling means to set me free, regardless of what I feel—or it means to join me in endless torment, a storm of shadow to drown out the world.

What would I do if it succeeded? What will I do, when inevitably it breaks through the seals?

(Teacher, I have failed. All of your studies on void with the king have amounted to nothing. I am a craven thing, desperate. All the knowledge in the world cannot save you from that which you wilfully ignore.)

…kill it.

(Watcher, forgive me; you will never be given the chance to reunite with your Knight and it will be for naught—for I chose my own whims over your sacrifice; I chose to let you die for nothing. Noble Hegemol, forgive me; I have taken the person most dear to you from you, and for what?)

I would kill it.

(Beast. Oh, Beast. We have both left the Gendered Child behind in our ruins, to mourn us, and when we both are dead, she will be alone.

For I have failed. I have failed. All of this has availed us nothing.)

I tremble.

(Leave, sibling, I beg.

Leave, because you cannot withstand this. I see in you something alive. I see in you something with potential to survive.

Leave, because if you come here, I will kill you—and it will not be her command that makes me do it.

I have never been a good loser.)

-

Dryya falls third, far later than her other two companions.

Some of the honourable Mantis Tribe willingly take in the infection—their strength of will is too great to be consumed on their own, but their pride is their downfall, and they would do anything for strength. They do not understand that in bargaining with her, they seal their own fate. They do not understand that in choosing this path, they are condemning themselves to torment.

The fiercest of the knights falls to their blades in service of her queen, but she does not go alone. Her grave is composed of the bodies of the infected, her armour stained in orange. She goes down fighting, claws, and blades.

I do not think the White Lady is even aware of the moment that she dies.

Perhaps that is for the better. This torment should not be anyone’s to bear but my own. It is my fault, after all.

My captive no longer attempts to convince me otherwise. She is not cruel to me, but she need not be; I am vicious enough for us both. We are a shattered, tangled thing, and she regrets nothing of her choices.

Will they all die? I ask her, voice strangled from the pain that paralyses me, like the chains that hold us fast in the air, higher still.

This is an ascent with a great fall at the end.

Our shared body will break before we hit the ground.

“Yes,” she answers. “They all deserve to die.”

I do not agree, but my ability to stop her is hindered by the fatality of my flaw.

I do not want them all to die, but I do not care if they live, either.

Who among them mourned for me?

-

Leave, I command. It both is, and is not, my voice. Hers lays over it, a second skin, resonant and clear. My own is a rattling thing, hoarse to my ears, for so little do I bother to make words. I sound like a thing dead. I am a thing dead. The command holds force, though it goes ignored by the smaller figure circling me, its nail raised to shatter the old, rotting chains. Metal shouldn’t decay, but the passage of time is a brutal thing, and void corrodes what it encounters. This place is thick with it.

It jumps over the cracked, charcoal gray shell that was once my arm. The black stain around the discarded limb is a pool, rendering it unrecognizable. I can identify spots of mottled brown where infection has dripped from my rotting carcass. I am a sick thing. Perhaps it means to grant me a merciful death, but—

I am also a possessive thing. I have ever-been. I do not share well. So few things have ever truly been mine. But she is.

Leave, I reiterate. This time it is my voice, hers having faded back. I can feel her contemplating in the back of our shared mind, analyzing the threat it poses. She thinks in its small form, she might yet find salvation; perhaps it will set me free, and she can use me, macabre puppet that my wretched body has become, to enact her own terrible fury.

She is hope. She has yet to give it up.

I will never her go. This is my burden to bear, and she is mine. She is only mine.

Leave.

Its nail clashes into one of the blades. Metal screams in agony as it is shattered—or maybe that is the sound of the voice that I am not meant to have.

It circles. It means to release me from my bindings.

(It means to set me free. It means to shoulder my task on its own.)

My binds shatter one-by-one. The void within it purrs, melodious, through my own. I can feel it like blood beneath the shell, testing the waters, touching me, verifying that I am still here—that I am still alive.

I do not answer. I am not alive.

My chains fall away and I collapse to the ground, a pathetic caricature of the noble grace that I once possessed, and the infernal light of my eyes reflects back at me.

It probes again, gentle and reassuring, as though to remind me that it will stop at nothing to see me set free. It knows not that there is nothing left within me to save.

Very well. It will learn through pain, if it must.

Kill the empty one.

(We will.)

[nerdflowo]

undefined

[flame-shadow]

Yeeess fandom violence! For hollow knight: 1, 9 and 16? 👀

fandom violence!!!

the character everyone gets wrong

Xero. Sorry, but only me and my friend on discord actually Get Him. I have evidence, because I read all the responses on any xero art, and since a lot of xero art is mine, I know the intention behind the art, and usually people don't get it all way. But my friend does, so she's the only one correct about him besides me. <3

Also, Lurien. He's not gay for the king. He's so devoted to his duty and the City that he doesn't have any capacity for romance. Palewatcher my beloathed.

9. worst part of canon

Hmmm. Honestly, this is the hardest question so far. Like, it's not like I don't have plenty of gripes, but they're not as forthcoming in this moment.

Worst part of gameplay is Pantheon of Hallownest. It's the worst because I don't find boss rushes all that enjoyable, and I think having to do all of the bosses each time you challenge that pantheon is exhausting and boring. I understand narratively why it is that way, but that doesn't help me enjoy the slog.

But that's not really what the question is about, is it? It's more story related. What's established by the game rather than the mechanics of the game itself.

Oh, I got it!

Worst part of canon is that Myla is doomed. I can't snap her out of her haze and bring her to Dirtmouth. If I could, I'd pick her up and carry her to the surface and sit her down on the bench, tell her to rest, and hey maybe later she could sing? The town needs some pleasant sounds, and I think she has a nice voice. <3

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

Soooooo many ships. I don't get how most of the pairings appeal or work logically. It's not even in a "they're terrible for each other, why would you do that?" way cuz I happen to enjoy self-destructive pairings when they make sense and/or are funny. It's just like, why would X and Y ever be together? I don't get it. And it usually doesn't interest me even when I do get it.

Also, fuckinggggg butterfly lurien. I don't get the appeal. Why a butterfly? If you're gonna specify his species, why pick butterfly? What's the symbolism? What's the motivation? And I don't think 'butterfly is pretty' is enough of a justification considering how many other bugs are just as if not more pretty (a subjective claim but i stand by it) and less overdone. And it's another of those "I've seen it too many times" things, because one person made him a butterfly and then sooo many other people were like 'yeah I'll do that too' and it's exhausting. iirc, there's a damselfly lurien interpretation out there now, and I'm neutral to that choice of bug, but at least he's not a butterfly.

[viulus]

Similarities between the themes of Hollow Knight and Disco Elysium; discuss

[basilbellona]

By BasilBread (Hi! Happy holidays!)

~Unrated Christmas/New Year's Hollow Knight One-Shot~

Word Count: 2,256

Characters: Hornet, Herrah the Beast, Midwife, and the Pale King

Summary: It is the end of the year and all of Hallownest's peoples seem to have a celebration.

The young Gendered Child, born of two cultures, is faced with the task of choosing which to follow––her Mother's woven tradition or her Father's feast––and making it to the event in time.

Author's notes: Did I create a whole speculative cultural holiday specifically for baby Hornet to cry over? Yes.

Those who grow up with separated parents will probably know the hassle of choosing which household go celebrate the season in. Hornet may not be a child of divorce, but the circumstances of her birth could lead to a lot of similar situations. Though, they only really complicate things during Hallownest’s holidays post-Sealing as her main parent is no longer around. There's grieving, awkward parenting from the King, and a still nameless Hornet who is hanging onto her childhood like a blanket. (And I hope this short story provides some catharsis to anyone who's been in a similar situation to the Gendered Child here!)

[beom-pyu]

truth or drink! (blind date edition): huening kai

the final part of the truth or drink series! thank you for all the love received on this <3 i'm planning on doing another youtube series eventually, so stay tuned!

other parts: beomgyu & taehyun "my ex + my boyfriend edition" yeonjun "couples edition" soobin "engaged edition"

slightly nsfw! (minors dni.)

welcome to truth or drink—blind date edition! strangers will ask each other a set of random questions. they can either answer the question or take a shot.

*BLINDFOLDED*

YOU: “um, hi, hello—”

HK: “hi. oh wait, that’s not your hand—”

you search for kai’s hand in the darkness before you finally feel his fingers, giggling as he gently shakes your hand.

YOU: “i’m y/n.”

HK: “nice to meet you, y/n. i’m kai.”

how long have you guys been single?

YOU: “about a year.”

HK: “i’ve been single for 3 years.”

is there a reason you’re single right now?

HK: “i’m a pretty shy person, so i never really go on dates.”

YOU: “i go on too many dates. i guess i just know what i want and don’t really like to waste my time.”

you guys ready to take the blindfold off?

YOU: “on the count of three.”

HK: “okay, one… two… two and a quarter… two and a half…”

YOU: “two and six eighths…”

HK: “two and fourteen sixteenths…”

YOU: “oh my god, i’m nervous.”

HK: “me too.”

YOU: “okay—three!”

you both take your blindfolds off and your jaw immediately drops while kai’s eyes widen.

YOU: “you guys didn’t tell me i’d be doing this with prince charming.”

kai nervously giggles.

HK: “you’re very, very cute. fuck, i wasn’t expecting this.”

YOU: “did you think i was going to be ugly?”

kai flusters, waving his hands in denial.

HK: “no, no! i-i just… woah.”

it’s your turn to giggle now.

YOU: “i’m just messing with you. i’m flattered.”

you guys wanna take a shot for the nerves?

YOU: “yes, please.”

HK: “cheers.”

YOU: “do you want to go first?”

HK: “sure.”

HUENINGKAI: what is your type? am i your type?

YOU: “honestly, i don’t think i have a type? and you’re insanely attractive, so yes.”

HK: “you’re definitely my type.”

YOU: “and what would that be?”

HK: “i like how confident you are. also the fact that you’re probably the prettiest person in this room right now.”

YOU: “i think we can just end the video here, guys. he’s perfect.”

YOU: what sounds do you make when you’re having sex? can you make them right now?

kai slides his shot glass towards you to fill up—you laugh as you unscrew the bottle, pouring it for him.

YOU: “i guess i’ll just have to find out for myself.”

HK: “guess so.”

HUENINGKAI: where is the craziest place you’ve hooked up with someone?

YOU: “i gave head in an elevator twice.”

HK: “twice?”

YOU: “it’s a long story.”

YOU: how many sexual partners have you had?

HK: “three…?”

YOU: “oh my god, why did you guys pair him with me—this feels like corruption.”

HK: “you’ve never been with anybody?”

YOU: “no, i’m corrupting you, sweetie.”

HK: “o–oh. okay. yeah, no, that’s fine. yeah. cool. okay. can i take a shot?”

HUENINGKAI: how would you rate your oral sex skills out of 10?

YOU: “10 out of 10, next question.”

YOU: i dare you to kiss me on the lips, or take a shot.

HK: “i’ll kiss you.”

YOU: “good, cause i was about to hide the whiskey so you have no choice.”

HK: “who’d pass up a chance like this?”

you giggle as you stand from your seat, leaning across the table to cup kai’s cheek. his face is flushed a light pink, his eyes wide and sparkling as he stares up at you. you give him a small smile before pressing your lips to his soft, plush ones—it doesn’t last longer than a few seconds, but you’re still rendered breathless. kai’s eyes stay glued onto your figure as you sit back down, your hands automatically reaching for the bottle.

HK: “was it bad?”

YOU: “the opposite, actually. i need to be drunk so i have an excuse as to why i’m going to kiss you again after this.”

HUENINGKAI: what is your average relationship length?

YOU: “on average… like 7 or 8 months? i’ve had a lot of situationships, but also a few serious relationships.” 

HK: “that’s not too bad.”

YOU: “and you?”

HK: “i’d say a year and a half.”

YOU: what’s the worst thing you did in your last relationship?

HK: “this one’s embarrassing, oh god. i think i’m gonna drink.”

YOU: “red flag, red flag!”

HK: “no, no, it’s nothing like that! well. it’s kind of like that.”

YOU: “what did you do?”

HK: “i… uh, i ghosted them.”

YOU: “oh, how long were you guys together?”

HK: “two years…”

YOU: “and you ghosted them???”

HK: “they were going to break up with me anyways, so i wanted to get them first. it was stupid.”

YOU: “honestly, you’re just like me. i can’t even blame you.”

HK: “let’s cheers to that.”

HUENINGKAI: what’s your biggest red flag?

YOU: “i’m scared of commitment.”

HK: “i was expecting something way worse.”

YOU: "like what? criminal activity?"

HK: "hey, you never know!"

YOU: “and what’s yours?”

HK: “hm, i don’t know… i have an extensive plushie collection?”

YOU: “wait, that’s actually cute!”

HK: “i have to make sure they face the wall when i have sex though.”

YOU: “that’s not a red flag. that’s basic human decency.”

HK: “thank you! finally someone understands.”

YOU: what do you do for a living?

HK: "i coach a youth soccer team."

YOU: "that's so cool! i'm a part-time student with a paid internship at a tech company."

HK: "brains are sexy."

YOU: "soccer is sexy too."

HK: "are we about to kiss right now?"

YOU: "let's save that for when the cameras are off."

HUENINGKAI: when was the last time you cried, and why?

YOU: “there was this really cute kitten that i wanted to adopt, but i live on my college campus, so i can’t have pets. i cried for a good 3 hours.”

HK: “i have a cat! maybe you can come over and meet her sometime.”

YOU: “yes. let’s go. right now.”

YOU: would you like to go out on another date with me? if yes, when and where? if no, why not?

HK: “i’d love to go on another date with you. whenever and wherever you’d like.”

YOU: “i’d love that too. and it’s not just because i want to meet your cat.”

HK: “...”

YOU: “okay, it’s partially because i want to meet your cat. but! you’re also really cute and sweet. i really want to get to know you better.”

HK: “i feel the same way. and i’d also like that second kiss.”

you turn to the camera, overdramatically waving goodbye.

YOU: “well, we have a date to get to! thank you for having us!”

masterlist

©️BEOM-PYU

[revryebread]

Everything Is Interstitial: Games inside of Games inside of Games

Interstitial is a game that takes characters and rips them from the cloth of where they come from and quilts them into one world. “Everything is Interstitial” is an extension of that: what if you could do that with mechanics and games?

I have teamed up with 5 designers to bring their games to Interstitial. When you turn the page from one to the other, you will stop being in Interstitial and start being in one of their games. They'll still be playbooks for Interstitial, but you will have the power to get into the gears and change the fabric of how you interact with the base system.

The best way I can put this is like in Dead Cells when you pick up the Hollow Knight needle and suddenly you can incorporate elements of Hollow Knight’s movement and gameplay into the game. I want that for Interstitial. (You can jump on people's heads and swing down, adding parrying and the weird bounce from the HK to a game that does not naturally have it!)

TAKUMA OKADA

Takuma is someone I have known in the TTRPG scene for what feels like ages, and their work has always been deeply impressive to me. They're a creator who has a way of stringing words together that could never come to me, and whenever they release something it feels like it changes the way I think. 

You may know them from Stewpot, Alone Among The Stars, and Old Home!

CARO ASERCION

Caro Asercion is someone I could work with every day and not get tired of it. When I read a game by them, it feels like momentum instead of action–their games let you be the movement of the gears, instead of the thing that is forcing them to turn. It feels second nature, and it makes things happen like magic in front of you.

You may know them from i'm sorry, did you say street magic?, Exquisite Biome, and The Long Shift!

TYLER CRUMRINE

Tyler has an absolutely incredible eye for resolution mechanics, and more importantly has a writing that lets me know cleanly and clearly how those mechanics work work cleanly and clearly. I come out of reading those rules like I've always known how to play. The Possible World RPG series is something I carry around with me when I'm traveling,  and whenever I show them to people they are amazed and impressed. 

You may know them from Beak, Feather, & Bone, Hounds, and Grandpa's Farm!

BRANDON LEON-GAMBETTA

I remember one of my first times ever being on Discord, sitting in the One Shot community, and turning to my wife and going "Oh woah, there's someone in here who actually makes TTRPGs!". That game was Pasión de las Pasiones, and that person was Brandon! I have been following his work forever, and between the experimentation that comes from his podcast or the genre work he's doing in his games, it's always incredible.

You may know him from Pasión de las Pasione, Stop Hack & Roll, and RadCrawl!

BRIAR SOVEREIGN

There is a wealth of big robot games out there in the wild, and to make yours stand out is a feat of strength. Briar's knack for amazing design both in layout and mechanics has made their work resonate clear above everything else. They are an absolute joy to know, and to work with them will be a highlight of my life.

These designers are each going to take one of their games and port it into Interstitial as a playbook, layout and all. This'll give players new mechanics to play around with, and hopefully ways to break everything. All of these designers are incredible at what they do–-- and they're bringing what they do to Interstitial. As long as we can hit that goal!!

[jayoonology]

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰/ 𝐓𝐮𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐮

𝗮/𝗻 - procrastinated and then gave birth to this. I low-key want to make the Beomgyu part a proper one shot but idk if I should.

𝘄𝗰 - sb (331), yj (324), bg (346), th (314), hk (290)

Choi Soobin | 최수빈

manga shopping date

It took him weeks and I mean weeks to ask you out. He sits behind you in class and Beomgyu swears Soobin spends more time looking at you than he does at the teacher. From all that creepy staring (as Beomgyu likes to call it) Soobin noticed your wallpaper. Is that jujutsu kaisen..? No way! If it was somehow possible Soobin likes you twice as more. After some (bad) hyping up from Beomgyu and an entire night of pondering he finally decides to ask you out.

Low-key he zoned out while he was talking to you because he couldn’t believe he was actually interacting with you. But somehow he didn’t mess up and asked you if you wanted to check out a manga shop with him. And you said yes?!?! Soobin was still zoned out so didn’t actually process it till later but Beomgyu (who was rudely eavesdropping was SHOCKED) 

On the day of the date, however; Soobin was NOT calm. Man was internally freaking out, he must have changed his outfit at least 3 times. When he did make it there he couldn’t help but overthink the entire thing. Are you actually coming? Do you know this is a date? Is he wearing his shirt backwards?

All his fears melted away when he saw you though. The conversations flowed easily and he sort of forgot it was even a date, everything seemed so easy with you. The both of you spent hours at the shop, browsing and recommending each other series. Most of the time both of you were just freaking out that they had every single jjk manga, even the super rare first edition ones. And by the end of the date the both of you had two heavy bags full of books. You two agreed you’ll never have a date again at the manga store as you’re both most definitely broke now.

“Next time we should go to watch the new jjk movie!”

“next time?” MAN WAS OVERJOYED!!!!! 

Choi Yeonjun | 최연준

chill evening at roof top bar

you and Yeonjun both work the same shift and for months now there’s been so much playful tension between the both of you. Enough to make your coworkers think there’s something going on. Now Yeonjun can’t lie, he does like you a little bit (a lot) and he admits you’re gorgeous (the most breathtaking person he’s ever seen) but he also knows that you’re his coworkers and things could become awkward (he’s too much of a pussy) This game of cat and dog had been going on for a while now and frankly, you’ve had enough of waiting for Yeonjun to make the first move. If he isn’t going to do it, you’ll do it yourself. So you super confident go up to him and don’t waste any time on pleasantries.

“Yeonjun there’s a new rooftop bar that opened down the street, do you want to go—”

“Yes.”

Literally the two of you bolt the second your shift was done. This is your first time seeing Yeonjun outside of work, and there was something different about it. The two of you seemed even more unhinged, even more flirty. You didn’t even need alcohol turns out you just needed to leave that grey office. When you were at the bar the two of you ordered almost every drink on the menu and refused to leave before closing getting absolutely wasted. It was fun sitting on a skyscraper looking at the tiny people below you.

As far as first dates go, it must have been the most brilliant one you’ve been on. You and Yeonjun didn’t leave a single topic uncovered discussing popcorn flavours to white sand beaches. And you have to admit, it was kinda cute how Yeonjun got wasted, he looked like a lovesick boy. And then there was when drunk Yeonjun went on a tangent about everything he likes about you. (you made sure to never let him hear the end of that)

Choi Beomgyu | 최범규

vinyl shopping

So Beomgyu ended up getting a vinyl player from Hyuka for his birthday, the only problem is, he doesn’t have any vinyl albums. So now he has two options:

Sell the vinyl player and make some cash.

Ask his pretty roommate to go vinyl shopping with him and blow his entire paycheck.

Logically, Beomgyu chose the latter. He isn’t exactly sure when he started developing a crush on you, he just knows that one day he woke up and no one seemed to matter except you. But there’s a little bit of a problem, how is he going to make the outing seem like a date? As roommates you practically do everything together, this needs to be special. He knows that you like music and him buying your favourite vinyls could be called romantic but with no previous warning, it’s just platonic.

He’s determined to make this seem special, but how? Naturally, he watched a romcom, sure he could have consulted his friends but they’re bitchless anyway: how could they have even helped. He landed on getting you flowers, that’s the most romantic thing a guy can give you right? So the next day as you get ready he quickly runs to the grocery store and back and gets you a bouquet of tulips, awkwardly handing them to you.

“uh what’s this?”

“flowers.”

“but why?”

“cause this is a date.”

“okay cool.”

OKAY COOL? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? Does that mean you like him too? Does that mean you’re uncomfortable? You can see the gears turning in Beomgyu’s head and figure you should probably help the poor boy out. You grab his hand, dragging him out of the apartment. Beomgyu’s face was pinker than the tulips he got you.

You two spent the entirety of the afternoon picking out cool records you found at the shop (and emptying Beomgyu’s pockets) buying the most obscure music you could find. Despite the long day, it was rewarding cause the two of you just chilled the rest of the day, playing the music you bought and eating takeout.

Kang Taehyun | 강태현

escape room

You and Taehyun have been project partners for a while now and instead of completing your project, Taehyun has spent more time falling for you. He’d vowed to himself that 2023 was going to be the year he was going to focus on school but here you come knocking his walls down.

Now Taehyun knew for sure he was going to ask you out, it was clear to the both of you that you liked each other, you were just patiently waiting for Taehyun to make the first move. The dilemma is, Taehyun doesn’t know where to take you. Sure he could be a basic bitch and take you out to the movies or a restaurant but you were more important than that. He wanted you to enjoy and remember the first date. He thought of many things like bowling or going to a school game together but they’re so crowded and loud, how will he be able to focus on you?

It was like a eureka moment when it struck him while having a shower. He could take you to an escape room! It’s private and fun, plus teamwork. The two of you were good at that (despite not finishing your project that was set 2 months ago) When he proposes it to you, you were overjoyed. Not only have you been waiting for Taehyun to make a move, but he also made the perfect move.

You work together to decipher the clues and solve the puzzles, using your teamwork and problem-solving skills to make your way through the room. Taehyun's quick wit and intelligence are a valuable asset, and you can feel yourself growing more and more impressed by him with each passing moment (his plan is working !!) now not only did you and Taehyun enjoy working together and talking about your interests, but it was also the most memorable date you’ve been on.

Huening Kai | 정카이

create your own plushie workshop

You’ve been trying to go on a date with Kai for weeks but something or another always comes up. First, you two had a planned a picnic and it turns out it was going to rain, then he gets called to pull an emergency shift, and then your car breaks down. You’ve been wondering if it’s a sign from the universe, the universe is definitely against picnics and you know what it’s fine, who wants to sit on the grass surrounded by weird bugs anyway?

So you decide to come up with something new, something fresh and better. So scour the internet for new events happening in your hometown. Wait, what’s that? A plushie-making workshop? If that isn’t the universe giving you a sign you don’t know what is. Kai loves plushies and wait for it, it’s happening this Saturday when the both of you don’t have work. It’s perfect.

So you call up Kai, telling him to write it down in permanent marker cause there’s no way in hell that this date is going to get cancelled. Luckily the two of you make it there early and basically have the workshop all to yourself. With the help of the instructor, you work on making a plushie together.

Of course, it had all the essentials, plus a little note the two of you wrote, hiding it in the stuffing on the plushie. Your plushie was perfect in every way and the icing on top was that you got to make it with the guy you’ve been crushing on for ages.

[ashyronfire]

pride

Title: pride Rating: T Characters: The Knight, Hornet, Grimm, Grimmchild Warnings: Injury, Recovery, Fluff(?), Humor (?), Second Person POV

Author's Notes: For @aewrie <3 This was meant to be something...else. But the Knight's POV always ends up being "why are you so inadvertently hilarious" and I can't stop them anymore lmao

pride on AO3.

“Where was she?” the specter asks, tone gentle, and you do not answer, because you cannot—and he knows that.

Grimm is regarding the disheveled, unconscious form of the spider – your sister, you remind yourself, though it feels more like an afterthought than familial affection.

You found her, collapsed and covered in her own sticky hemolymph, outside of a cave-in in the Crystal Peaks. You don’t know why she was there, and the fact that you happened upon her at all was nothing short of miraculous. You do not venture into that region often; there is little reason to that you have found so far, despite your fondness for exploration.

But you heard the collapse all the way from the Temple of the Black Egg.

You heard it when the infection ripped up the cavern, spreading like blood in water, tinging stone in molten gold. You heard it when the thick vines, like arteries, coursed along the stone walls and gave it a pulse. And you heard it when the stones dislodged themselves and shattered, breaking on the ground.

The child helped you bring her back here, to Dirtmouth, where you went to the only person that you thought might be able to help.

In retrospect, perhaps Iselda would have been a more appropriate option. You are fairly certain that Hornet would have preferred that. By nature, the spider is fiercely independent, and the idea of anyone seeing her in a weakened state will grate her nerves. That the person seeing her this way is someone who could potentially outlive her, who will never forget, is not lost on you. She will find that infuriating, but—

But you trust him. You trust him and you want her to be okay, even if that means earning her ire at a later date.

(You suspect it will be aimed more at him than you, though. How much the spider views you as capable of processing emotion and thought varies on a daily basis.

Nevertheless, you are left with the distinct impression that she would have much preferred for you to leave her to die beneath the rubble, rather than wound her pride by asking another to aid her. That you know this and make this choice despite that fact is, perhaps, telling.

Pride comes before a fall—and it is not you who is injured, so what care have you?)  

The god-in-mortal-flesh tilts his head down and shifts Hornet’s mask from side-to-side. “She does not appear to have been fully crushed but she has definitely suffered contusions, with potential internal injuries,” he observes. He glances at you, then paces across the room to a large cabinet. When he opens it, you catch sight of folded blankets and pillows, which surprise you: he does not sleep on those things, favoring hanging, so what purpose do they serve?

Comfort, perhaps.

Other bugs like that sort of thing. You must constantly remind yourself that you are an exception who has little interest in things that are without proper function.

“Do me a kindness, would you? The table—can you move it?”

You nod. The nymph on your shoulder glides over to the table, as though to indicate what its father is referring to, and together, the pair of you push the old wooden thing to the side. It smells of varnish and the intricate carving work tells you that it was probably expensive—or custom. Much of the Troupe Master’s belongings are like that: old, heavy, seemingly valuable, or custom tailored to his rather eclectic tastes.

(He has a lot of things. No sensible person needs that many things.)

You do not need help. Though your frame is small, the void within you is a veritable tempest; there is no little that can withstand your might when you choose to call it to you, and that includes furniture. Your friend is eager to be of assistance, though, and you find the earnest effort endearing; you pretend that you are struggling more than you are to make it seem like the child is doing more than simply headbutting one of the legs. The dark cherrywood gives a little creak as the base of the legs drags across the ground, and it almost drowns out the sound of rustling fabric. Almost.

When you turn around again, Grimm is behind you unfurling a mountain of fabrics and blankets. They are threadbare and a jumbled mix of fabrics haphazardly stitched together, with little regard for presentation, and yet… you find it charming.

He lays a pillow down, then turns to you. “Thank you. Let us move her here and see how extensive the damage to her carapace is.”

‘Us’ here means him. You barely managed to drag Hornet to Dirtmouth on your own. It involved void tendrils that you were cautious not to touch her shell with, and frequent breaks, with Grimmchild chattering the entire time as an anxious bundle of nerves.

(The spider may not appreciate the child, but the feeling does not seem to be mutual. The nymph seems to greatly enjoy using her as target practice, in part, you think, because she dodges so deftly.

You should likely discourage this behavior. You do not.

You somewhat hope it manages to set her on fire. You may be family, but you are not entirely friends.

You also would find this very funny. Your sense of humor is not the kindest thing ever.)

Grimm carefully gathers Hornet’s unconscious form and moves her to the pile of blankets. He is delicate in each movement, mindful of her wounds, and he uses the pillow to keep her head elevated. You do not miss that he also kicks her needle very far out of reach, so that should she wake, she cannot immediately eviscerate him. This is a good decision because you suspect that she will wake up violent. You cannot pass judgment. If you woke up injured, in a strange place, you would also feel an inclination to start swinging your nail.

You perch at the end of her feet and Grimm unfastens the brooch on her cloak, carefully settling it around her. There is a very vivid split in her shell, black breaking to ooze with transparent fluid.

“This is the source of the stains on her cloak,” he tells you without looking up. Grimmchild alights next to part of the discarded fabric and gathers it into its maw. Grimm looks up at the larva and thumbs with one finger toward the door. “Take that to Brumm, would you, please? He will be able to clean it for her.”

The child nyehs affirmatively and then bundles the fabric in its vestigial wings. You are not entirely sure how it manages it, but it does carry the cloak out of the room. Grimm watches it go with an affection that would make you uncomfortable, were it anyone else. As it is, you find the unusual relationship between father-and-child to be fascinating. They are the same soul, split into two, and there is an undeniable connection shared between them. They are individuals, too, though. Where the father is macabre at times, easily amused, and of a black sense of humor, the child is excitable, enthusiastic, and genuine. You enjoy both.

(You are very close to the child, though, and of the two of them, it is your favorite. It is one of your favorite people altogether.)

To you, Grimm instructs, “There are numerous jars in the cabinet at the back. We will clean these injuries and glue them shut—and she will likely molt them out once they are closed. Go. Open the cabinet and I will tell you which ones we need.”

You nod, while Grimm shifts slightly to rest Hornet’s horns in his lap. This allows him to curl over her, drawing attention to how malleable his shell seems to be; he bends and twists in ways no natural bug ought to be able to. You cross the room to the cabinet and then pull a small box over to use as a stepping stool, so that you can reach the handles.

When you open the cabinet, you are presented with a myriad of colorful glass containers, each sealed with glass and labeled immaculately, strings tied around the top and dates marking each one. You look over the different names, but they are in a language that you do not speak.

“The amber one,” Grimm says from behind you. “And… there is—do you see the square jar with the white powder? Those two. And then the fabric roll, if you would be so kind.”

You nod. The amber jar is very large. Its weight is less of a problem than the shape, which you struggle to hold onto. You are slow as you step off the box and bring it over to Grimm’s side. When you set it down, the fluid within sloshes, and you catch brief sight of his reflection in it—

(Doesn’t match. Pink and red instead of black and red. Too bright eyes. Too much fire. Obscure lines, blurred shape. Not really of this world. Reflections of the truth. This is an illusion. The Nightmare’s Heart in mortal flesh.)

—before you turn to grab the square container.

“This is antiseptic. And that is corn starch.”

Corn starch?

You angle your head to the side in silent question as you carry that particular case back to the Troupe Master. He sets it aside while unfastening the lid on the antiseptic and, in answer to your unvoiced inquiry, he explains, “It is to be our glue. We will clean the open splits carefully in order to avoid… infection.” The word is not lost on him, and you catch a brief smile that registers as amused. “Then I will have you hold her plates together while I mix the cornstarch with water and then use it as a seal on the wound. That will stop her bleeding—this is not enough for a half-wyrm to bleed out, but she is not going to feel very good when she wakes up.”

“I already do not feel very good,” Hornet answers, voice croaking, and Grimm jerks above her. She angles her head toward him. “You.”

“Hello.”

“Of course it is you,” she groans, attempting to sit up, and he puts one hand on her shoulder to force her back down. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late,” Grimm murmurs.

You go back to the cabinet to retrieve the rolls of fabric. You hear shuffling behind you and when you turn back around, two more legs have come out from underneath Grimm’s cape, to hold Hornet’s arms down. “Do not make this harder than it must be, Princess-Protector; it is not my aim to cause you further injury.”

“I do not need your help. I would rather have been crushed than rely on you.”

Grimm scoffs. “Then perhaps you should have been several steps further back, my dear.”

He releases his hold on her, Hornet stilling enough to make it justified, and then he returns to assessing the damage.

Corn starch. You tune out the pair of them bickering, laying the bandages down at Grimm’s side, to open the container of powder and swipe one hand through it. Corn starch. You would never have guessed that to be used for first aid, but it does make sense.

You put one paw underneath your mask, void shifting and twisting into a mouth to ‘taste’ it off of your fingertips.

You have no idea whether or not you consider it to taste good. You do not think it is meant to be consumed this way.

Grimm and Hornet ignore you.

Hornet stills, though the look she levels on Grimm is one of positively murderous intent. As you expected, it is he that she holds completely responsible, and you would argue that this is your fault, if not for the fact that you are incapable of proper communication. It does not seem to bother Grimm at all, though; if anything, he seems to be fueled by her reactions, his head inclined to the side in obvious amusement.

“You mustn’t struggle so. Your wounds remain open. You were near crushed. You should be thanking the vessel for its kindness in rescuing you.” He takes one of the strips of fabric and then dips it into the antiseptic. Rather than touch her with it, he holds it out for the spider to scent. “Antiseptic. It is a combination of witch hazel and grape seed extract. It will clean the wounds.”

Hornet bristles. She takes a long, slow sniff of the fluid, as though to verify that she is not being lied to, and then exhales.

“Very well.”

It is obvious from the rigidity of her posture that she does not trust Grimm, but you do. You do not believe that he would harm her. Not like this, anyway. That would be rude.

(And not nearly theatrical enough. Grimm likes his showmanship.)

As he goes to clean the large crack with the rag, you decide that you do not like the taste of the corn starch and proceed to excise it from your body—still in powder form—all over the floor of the tent. You can feel Grimm and Hornet both staring at you, but you do not look their way. You look at the flap separating the chambers instead, because you can hear the beating of wings, and sure enough, Grimmchild returns a heartbeat later.

With a metal bucket carried in its maw, the fluid within sloshing to-and-forth.

Good child. You dart to its side to take the bucket and it flops between your horns, panting. You would pet its back to reassure it, but it takes both of your hands around the handle to lug the bucket over to where Grimm and Hornet are sitting. She is sprawled against his chest, her own head tilted down, and it would be an incredibly familiar position if she did not look like she was about to spring off the ground at any moment.

You set the bucket before them and incline your head to the side in silent interest. Your gaze follows the way that Grimm cleans the gouge in her chest, mindful not to pull the broken shell too hard.

“You will molt this off, yes?” he verifies.

“When next I molt, yes,” she agrees. Her gaze slants toward you. “… You went to great lengths to retrieve me from the collapse. Know that I will return the favor, should the opportunity arise.”

Grimm bursts out in a harsh laugh. “That is as close to a thank you as you are going to get, my friend.”

If looks could kill, he would be lying flat. As it is, Grimm does not so much as acknowledge the spider’s discomfort. He finishes dabbing the witch hazel onto her chest and tosses the rag aside, then uses a fresh one to clean around the wounds.

“You will want to visit a hot spring to accelerate the process of healing,” he murmurs. “I assume that you possess your sire’s ability to channel Soul to some degree?”

“Not at the level that it does,” Hornet answers, glancing at you. You bob your head to the other side pleasantly, as if to say, ‘That I do!’ and she ignores it, explaining, “But it will do more good than harm. How long was I unconscious?”

Grimm looks at you and you hold up your hands, counting out on your fingers idly, before settling on just three of them up. That’s a good enough estimate. Three or so—

“Days?” your half-sister asks, appalled.

“I expect that it means hours, Princess; do calm yourself.”

She snatches the wet cloth out of Grimm’s hands, and he holds both of them up as if in surrender. “I am plenty calm,” she insists, though her tone is anything but, and you want to point out to her that she sounds wound tighter than a drum. You can tell from the way that Grimm’s fingers twitch, animated, that it takes every bit of willpower he has to also withhold such an observation. “I can do the rest myself. Stop touching me.”

She really should accept the help, you think. She is badly wounded. Not mortally so, no—she will not die from these wounds—but they cannot be comfortable, and their position means that she won’t be able to accurately see what she is doing. She also should not be walking around, but you know the futility of trying to inform her of that. Grimm clearly does, too, for he untangles himself from around her, his second set of arms going back beneath his cape. He shuffles past you, easy on his feet, unbothered by the spider’s agitation, and you watch her as she never takes her eyes off of him. It is the look of a wounded predator expecting to be put down. It is unmerited. You remain convinced that if Grimm wanted to harm her, he would be far more flamboyant in the attempt. There would be fire, there would be spectacle, there would be a show.

(Grimmchild, on the other hand, might bite her shell off for the doing.)

“Forgive an old bug his whims,” Grimm hums without turning back. “It is good that you are spirited.”

Grimmchild mewls on your head and then, as if in defiance of its father’s words, spits a fireball right at Hornet. She narrowly manages to wiggle her way away from it.

Master of mixed messages, that.

A sharp clink snares your attention, and you look away from Hornet, who is moving to mix the water from the bucket that Grimmchild brought into some of the corn starch. She clearly has experience with doing so, and you suspect that this is not the first time that she’s glued part of her shell back together. You are sure that stitches are her favored method of treatment, though you do not ask whether one is more efficient than the other. That is not your problem.

Grimm is making tea. You recognize the pot.

“I am not at all fooled by your disguise, Nightmare King,” Hornet hisses.

You draw away from her. She is in no danger of sudden collapse; she will not die today, and despite her agitation, you know that she is in good hands with Grimm.

“I know very well that though you say one thing, your actions say another—”

“You would blame me for my child’s actions?” Grimm quips back.

“Your child is you—”

You leave the pair of them to bicker, the last of Hornet’s statement being lost to you as you start back through the tent. The musician at the front offers you a polite nod, continuing to play his accordion, while Grimmchild hangs onto your horns, draped over your mask like a doll. It makes a low noise in its throat as the pair of you depart.

You have places to be. Your task remains unfinished.

Your sister will be just fine.

[just-a-dinosaur-i-guess]

i have a multiverse rp that's been going on for a while and i really like these kinds of polls! so.

no pressure, but i'd appreciate rbs, i wanna see what people think !

[exo-raskreia]

ToShiro jealous of Karin headcanons?

Oh, wow! 😮 Let's see...

This all takes place in my HK spin-off sequel ideas when they're in the teen stage...

I can imagine him being the type to brood over it, like if he witnesses Karin getting hit on, but it's not necessarily his business to butt in, then he'd just pretend not to care. He'd busy himself with something while his internal feelings of jealousy simmer underneath the surface. Anyone who comes across him will notice something seems off, but don't know why & would rather not bother him. Maybe there's an aura about him 🤭. He doesn't realize why he starts to feel this way initially, though.

Let's say he's pretending to be a student again in high school (like in the OG Bleach), & he starts to notice the attention Karin gets from other boys. The stares, the praises for her athleticism & high academic scores, whispers about them wanting to shoot their shot with her, etc. Some might even see her as a challenge & want to be the ones to win her over. Hitsu would start to feel a bit bothered by all this the more he gets to know her, but thinks, 'Hmph, as if she'd give a second thought to those bozos.'

His opinion of her is rather high, so he trusts her better judgment. Though, that still doesn't stop him from feeling a little worried every time he overhears a boy planning to ask her out at the back of the school. It isn't until she meets him at the front gates so he can walk her home, when she says she had to politely reject yet another guy, that he feels an internal relief. He doesn't really know why but it feels like another silent victory of sorts.

He may or may not notice how other boys look at him whenever he's with Karin. Maybe at times, he feels a little smug, especially when her attention is solely on him, & other boys glare at him resentfully.

This can also apply to the scenario in which she's a Soul Reaper in his division. She's fairly new, but obviously she's leagues above most others. Hitsu admires her tenacity & the way she radiates whenever she's focused. He's not the only one who's noticed this; he's caught his men once or twice looking her way interestedly. It didn't bother him necessarily, only made his eyes roll. But one day, when the recruits are training at the dojo, Hitsu comes by to check on them & once again witnesses Karin excel. She really does stand out among the rest. And it was here that it finally hit him just how much attention Karin gets from his men. Glances, praises, & asking for tips.

He knows she's popular in his division (as well as the others, if he's being honest) but it isn't only because she's continuing the legacy of the Kurosaki-Shibas. There's more to Karin & he isn't the only one who's noticed. She's friendly & willing to help. Intelligent, brave, & fun to be around. She... was not unpleasant to look at; he's not blind, for God's sake.

And yet, the sudden bout of knowledge that he's not alone in his thoughts irritates him for some reason & decides to step in. He offers to help those recruits instead, deciding he will not go easy on them. It isn't often that he leads a training session, since as the captain, he has more important duties. But he decides that he doesn't have much work due until tomorrow & gives the dojo instructor the rest of the day off. During training, he's a little stricter than usual with the men in particular & Karin can't help being secretly mesmerized by his teaching mode. She is oblivious to his internal conflicts & to her own feelings for that matter.

All in all, I think Hitsugaya may be the type to be oblivious about his feelings at first, & won't realize why he feels irritation by other men approaching Karin with intentions beyond friendship & camaraderie. When he does realize it, he'll try to be in denial, but his discomfort may still be obvious to some even if they can't pinpoint why.

I hadn't thought much about this before but this is what I was able to come up with for now. Hope it somewhat answers your question, anon! 😄

[thedarkcircuswritings]

howdy, im anon, hollow anon :D

guess i'll be the first one making a hk request, so, here i go, ghost and hornet resting on a bench, you can choose the place, i just would like to see what hornet says to the little ghost when she isn't ready for a fight, u know?

It had been a bit since Ghost had last seen Hornet, but seeing her sitting idly on a bench that they usually sit at was a little confusing. Still, in order to rest, they needed that bench, so they hopped onto the bench and sat down next to Hornet. Hornet glanced down at them for a moment before shifting, just letting them have a bit more room next to her. It was relatively quiet here. Peaceful as well. No enemies in sight from either Ghost or Hornet. Any stable civilization they knew of was quite a far distance from here... it was just the two of them in comfortable silence. Of course, after a while, Hornet had to get up and go, wishing Ghost a quiet farewell before she shot herself away, letting Ghost to rest, waiting until their energy was close enough for them to continue on the battle.

[sirensea14]

Wowie Siren!!! You wrote amazing!! 😳😳😳 GIMME YOUR TALENT RN!!11!!!! /jk/hk

Are you talkin about "My Bright star (kickin x reader)" ?

Wait--YOU READ MY KICKIN CHICKEN X READER ONE SHOT??!!! 😭

Was it really that good?