#Cthulhu Rise

[fhtagn-and-tentacles]

RISE OF CTHULHU

Sculpt by Thales Augusto

[cletusthurstonbeauregard]

[asteroidgalore]

Erato (62) is the Greek Goddess of Erotic Poetry.

She’s also important in lyrics. In terms of analyzing and recognizing hidden meanings of lyrics in our favorite songs, she is a goddess to call upon!

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Nanty Narking - The Rise of Cthulhu Box Art by Mateusz Michalski

[captainpirateface]

Dreamgirls. 🖤❤️💕🖤❤️💕🖤❤️💕🖤❤️💕

[eldritch-lorekeeper]

And now...

(For something cute. Was going through my drafts, and i found a self insert thing i did for Salem i did QUITE some time ago...but i'm quite proud of myself because ;A; i'ma cry, this is so sweet aaaaaa--)

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You weren’t sure how or when it got to the point it did, but there you were having to lead this towering, dark willow of a man in one of your guest bedrooms. You’d barely caught some of the warning signs that maybe, just maybe, a migraine was imminent. He’d started to become more clumsy, dropping things, stumbling, his hands shaking more and more until it became nearly impossible for him to keep up with you.

But then came the moment where you realized something was horribly wrong and he’d gone from leaning on you to almost completely collapsing. It’d been a little surprising but not enough to throw you off as you held him up, the both of you almost collapsing as you struggled to stay on your feet. You managed to get him into the bedroom before his legs gave out entirely and he collapsed onto the bed, arms curling around his head as he curled up, a loud groan coming from his throat as he tried to fight through it.

You were stunned, just staring down at the sight of this normally proud, confident man looking so vulnerable as he curled in on himself, a moan of pain leaving his lips.

The sudden realization that you didn’t know what to do left you scrambling for something you could use, anything at all, to help. You cut out all the lights in the room, drawing your blackout curtains and making sure that there wasn’t a single noise in the house that would aggravate him, though you knew the pain would last for a while. You’d heard before that there wasn’t much that could be done to ease it once it had gotten this far, though sometimes people had been able to take some medicine for it to get at least a little relief.

You were sitting at the foot of the bed, one of his legs in your lap, and it was so much harder to watch him suffer than you thought it would be. You felt so helpless, like you couldn’t do a damn thing. He didn’t talk and you didn’t ask, though you did hold one of his hands, letting him squeeze your hand until you could barely feel your fingers. Salem’s hands were so cold, yet felt so deft and willowy. 

You knew it had to hurt but there wasn’t anything you could do about it.

And there you stayed for what seemed like forever, the two of you in silence.

You then properly decide to lay down beside him, unsure if that would make him uncomfortable or if he would like that, but hell...it felt more comfortable at the time than sitting at the end of the bed. You still held onto his hand, thumb gently running over his knuckles, while your other hand rested on his side, the gentle rise and fall of it was almost hypnotic as you watched him, silently praying that he’d be able to get some sort of relief from this.

A little while after you lay down, you’d felt Salem’s hand turn in yours and you took it as a cue to curl your fingers around his, gripping his hand tightly, hoping that you’d be able to help him in any way you could. You knew that there was only so much you could do for him, but it was enough that he could rely on you to be there.

And so, as you lay there with him basically curled over into a ball, a small idea struck...but you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

“Salem...?” You whispered, trying to keep your voice as low and quiet as you could. You didn’t want to speak too loudly or do anything to aggravate his migraine. You had no idea how he felt about having anyone touch his head and you wanted to make sure he was comfortable with what you were suggesting.

“Hm?”

You sighed softly, leaning a little closer and trying to find the right words to say to him.

“Could i...maybe...?” You started, biting at your lower lip nervously. “I’m not sure if I’d be able to help but...could I rub your scalp? Maybe that’d help?” You asked softly.

He was silent for a long moment, though you were patient and waited for his response. You just hoped that he would be able to feel a bit better after all of this. After what felt like forever, and wondering if you’d somehow managed to make things worse...he did speak.

“Mnh...only if you’re sure...just be gentle. Especially with hair...” He mumbled, his voice so quiet you almost couldn’t hear it.

Your face flushed a little in surprise, you hadn’t expected him to agree to it, let alone with those conditions. Though, you supposed it made sense with his hair, especially with his scalp being so tender at the moment. One false move and it would probably hurt like hell. 

You then moved a little closer, keeping your voice as low and quiet as possible as you started to comb your fingers through his hair, feeling how silken and soft it was beneath your fingertips. It felt like fine black thread and you were able to almost bury your fingers in the locks of hair. It seemed to calm him and he made no signs that he disliked what you were doing for him.

If it were possible for a man to purr (though with what he WAS, you were surprised he wasn’t), Salem would be doing it, the sensation of your fingertips running through his hair was soothing and left him almost limp with comfort as you massaged his scalp gently, trying not to pull his hair as you ran your fingers through it.

You could feel Salem slowly shifting a little closer towards you, curling up against you and burying his face into your chest.

“You okay?” You asked him, not stopping as your fingers worked to soothe him, even if just a little.

“Mhm. Keep doing that.” He mumbled and you didn’t have to be told twice, you had no intention of stopping what you were doing. You could feel his body relaxing more and more by the second, even if only a little, his entire being seemingly melting into the touch of your fingers against his scalp.

It wasn’t until he dozed off, still curled up in a tight ball, that you stopped, pulling away a little to see that he was already sleeping. You felt so honored that you’d managed to help him at all and you could only hope that he would feel better when he woke up. You weren’t going anywhere, though, not for a while.

[davidjhiggins]

The Rise of Cthulhu by Max Mozi

Drawing on the ideas of hidden cults and nightmare-ridden artists from Lovecraft’s “Call of Cthulhu” but setting them against the 1980’s US punk and alternative club scene, Mozi creates a visceral rather than academic mythos tale. Continue reading The Rise of Cthulhu by Max Mozi

[consumedshadow-mysticmc]

[fhtagn-and-tentacles]

CALL OF CTHULHU

by Coliandre

[fullaccessdetroit]

SCAREFIELD Unleashes "Ancient Evil" - A Thrash Metal Epic with a Lovecraftian Twist!

New EP, NIGHTMARE TALES, Out NOW! SCAREFIELD, the electrifying, horror infused force in the world of thrash metal, SIMONE MANULI and MARKUS KRISTOFFERSSON, is set to shake the foundations of the music scene with their latest single and accompanying animated music video, “Ancient Evil.” This track is part of their highly anticipated EP, NIGHTMARE TALES, an H.P. Lovecraft inspired masterpiece that…

[cletusthurstonbeauregard]

[theguywithaplan]

List of Games Turning Twenty (20) Years Old in 2025

Advance Wars: Dual Strike

Advent Rising (they started planning the trilogy before the first game was out lmao)

Age of Empires III

Animal Crossing: Wild World (the DS one)

Arc the Lad: End of Darkness

Area 51 (the FPS that was low-key kinda creepy)

Banjo Pilot (the Banjo-Kazooie racing game on GBA).

Battalion Wars (the spin-off of Advance Wars).

Battlefield 2

Brothers in Arms: Road to Hill 30

Brothers in Arms: Earned in Blood (yep, they released two mainline games in one year).

Burnout Revenge (this cleared Burnout 3, and I will fight you on that).

Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth

Call of Duty 2

Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow (go play the Castlevania Dominus collection. It has this game and a few others and it's GREAT).

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness

Civilization IV

Cold Fear (answering the age old question: what if Resident Evil 4 was on a boat and not as good?)

Condemned: Criminal Origins (a launch title for the Xbox 360 and a pretty solid horror game).

Conker: Live & Reloaded (maybe a controversial opinion, but this is WAY better than the original).

Crash Tag Team Racing

Dead or Alive 4 (aka, the one with not Master Chief in it).

Destroy All Humans!

Devil Kings (all the sequels would be under it's non-translated title: Sengoku Basara).

Devil May Cry 3: Dante's Awakening (let's rock, baybeeeeee)

Donkey Kong: Jungle Beat

Dragon Ball Z: Sagas (I saw a stream of this game a few months back, and oh my god, this looks so shitty/funny).

Dragon Quest VIII: Journey of the Cursed King

Dynasty Warriors 5 (who's excited for Origins???)

Far Cry Instincts (a console version of the PC exclusive original game)

Fatal Frame III: The Tormented

F.E.A.R. (if you haven't played this before, change that. it's fantastic)

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance (the one with Ike the Bisexual in it).

Forza Motorsport (the very first one).

Gauntlet: Seven Sorrows

Geist (the rare M-rated Nintendo game).

The Getaway: Black Monday

God of War (the very first one).

Gran Turismo 4 (one of the few PS2 games that could be played in HD, along with... Jackass: The Game...)

Guild Wars

Guitar Hero (the very first one).

Haunting Ground (a very rare PS2 horror game from Capcom).

Hot Shots Golf: Open Tee

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction

The Incredibles: Rise of the Underminer (since the second movie came out, this game is now considered non-canon).

Indigo Prophecy/Fahrenheit (the second game from known hack/fraud David Cage).

Jade Empire (the last game that BioWare made before they got acquired by EA).

Jak X: Combat Racing

Judge Dredd: Dredd vs. Death (there was a for real-ass Judge Dredd game on the GameCube).

Kameo: Elements of Power (another Xbox 360 launch title, this one made by a post-acquisition Rare. It's pretty fun).

Killer7 (from the greatest to ever do it, Suda51)

Peter Jackson's King Kong: The Official Game of the Movie (you guys think it's based on the movie or what...?)

Kirby: Canvas Curse (a really fun DS game that only used the stylus)

Klonoa 2: Dream Champ Tournament (i think klonoa would get along really well with sonic)

The Legend of Zelda: The Minish Cap (the one where Link gets really small)

Lego Star Wars: The Video Game

Lunar: Dragon Song (one of the worst RPGs I've ever played. Don't play it).

Mario & Luigi: Partners in Time (the one with the Baby Mario Bros.)

Mario Kart DS (the first one with online play).

Mario Party Advance

Mario Party 7 (my personal favorite)

Mario Superstar Baseball (we didn't get a Mario Baseball game on the Switch. Because they're saving it for the Switch 2).

Mario Tennis: Power Tour (so many Mario games...)

Dance Dance Revolution: Mario Mix

Marvel Nemesis: Rise of the Imperfects

The Matrix Online (an official continuation from the movies)

The Matrix: Path of Neo

Medal of Honor: European Assault

MediEvil: Resurrection

Mega Man Battle Network 5 (the only one in the series to have a DS version)

Mega Man Zero 4

Mercenaries: Playground of Destruction

Metal Gear Acid (a launch title for the PSP, and a card game set in the Metal Gear universe. It works better than you might think).

Meteos (a puzzle game made by Masahiro Sakurai, the Smash Bros. guy)

Metroid Prime Pinball

Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks

Myst V: End of Ages (the final Myst game)

Need for Speed: Most Wanted (did you know that this game outsold the entire Halo series?)

Neopets: The Darkest Faerie (is Neopets still a thing?)

Nicktoons Unite! (a crossover between Spongebob, Fairly Oddparents, Jimmy Neutron, and Danny Phantom).

The Nightmare Before Christmas: Oogie's Revenge (an honest to god sequel to the movie that plays like Devil May Cry).

Ninja Gaiden Black

Nintendogs

Oddworld: Stranger's Wrath

Pac-Man World 3

Perfect Dark Zero (yet another Xbox 360 launch title, also made by Rare, and a sequel to one of the best FPS games ever made. It was fine).

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (it had been out in Japan for a few years, but us Yankees got this four years after it came out).

Pokemon Dash (a Pokemon racing game. It was not very good).

Pokemon Emerald Version (I sunk like 500 hours into this game).

Pokemon XD: Gale of Darkness (a sequel to Pokemon Colosseum where you could capture other people's Pokemon).

Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones

Psychonauts

The Punisher

Quake 4

Ratchet: Deadlocked

Resident Evil 4

Serious Sam 2

Shadow of the Colossus (one of the best games ever made. Play it if you haven't yet).

Shadow the Hedgehog (pretty good to be a sonic fan right now).

Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga (parts 1 and 2).

Sly 3: Honor Among Thieves

Sonic Rush

SoulCalibur III (RIP, SoulCalibur. Tekken is just too powerful.)

Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory (RIP, Splinter Cell. Ubisoft just sucks too much to make you anymore).

Spyro: Shadow Legacy

Star Fox Assault

Star Wars: Republic Commando

Star Wars: Battlefront II (this game's story mode is permanently etched into my brain).

Stubbs the Zombie in "Rebel Without a Pulse" (presenting it to you with no context. Look it up. It's hilarious).

Super Mario Strikers

Super Monkey Ball Deluxe

Tak: The Great Juju Challenge

Tekken 5

TimeSplitters: Future Perfect (RIP, TimeSplitters. Embracer Group killed you before you could come back).

Trace Memory (got remade in 2024 as Another Code)

Twisted Metal: Head-On (another PSP launch title)

Ultimate Spider-Man (you could play as Venom in this one)

WarioWare: Touched!

WarioWare: Twisted!

We Love Katamari

Wild Arms: Alter Code F (a remake of the first game)

Xenosaga Episode II

X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse

[hivemuthur]

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

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

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

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 7,6K (oops)

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

Cross-posted on AO3

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you expect him today?” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reach instinctively for Viktor’s sleeve.

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

“Locked,” he mutters. “Stand back.”

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

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

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

A silence falls—so complete it seems unnatural.

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

You stagger back just in time.

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

And then—nothing.

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

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

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

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

“Did you hear a voice?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a cautious nod, you and Viktor descend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Viktor,” you say softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the horse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come,” he says. “We must hurry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve no proof—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s real?” Beaumont rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No—it’s—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—"

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

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

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

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: D&D

Elon Musk: mama mia Musk: life, itsa seems so empty Musk: [touching a framed portrait of Stephen King] since my-a best frienda moved away

Musk: i'm-a so depressed Musk: grok, what shoulda i do Grok: [slur] Musk: mama mia, you are righta,grok! Musk: i SHOULD buy Hasbro to secure the rights to dungeons anna dragons!

Stephen King: submitted for the approval of the- Elon Musk [rising out of bushes] eyyyy Stephano king King: elon? are we still doing this?! King: i'm gone from twitter now! King: i'm finally… King: clean

Musk: maybe you heard i tweeted ima gonna buy hasbro Barker: christ why would we hear that Musk: eyyy i tweeta it, itsa news! MusK: datsa how da lasangna is made, paisano!

August Derleth: okay welcome to another call of Cthulhu game Derleth: what are your characters this time? Victor LaValle: i'm sweet sweetbreads, the harlem hustler Brian Keene: i'm dr. batcountry, the gonzo journalist Nick Mamatas: i'm groovio daddy, the freaky deaky beatnik Elon Musk: ima da paladin!

Derleth: excuse me? i don't think you're part of this group Musk: eyyy i buy Hasbro, so now ima member of EVERY D&D group! Derleth: this isn't D&D! it's call of Cthulhu! Derleth: its owned by chaosium! Musk: Musk: not for longa!

Musk: i owna all ropleplaying games now, as a concept Musk: data mean, you hafta let me play! Derleth: ok ok fine Derleth: what's your character? Musk: ima da elfin paladin Derleth: this isn't that kind of game! Musk: mama mia you betta MAKE It datta kind of game or i breaka you face, pedodungeonmaster!

Derleth: guys, look i think we're gonna have to make some changes in the game to accommodate elon Derleth: i know this is unpopular but if we don't he's going to be crying all night Derleth: he is very rich, after all Keene: oh yeah very rich LaValle: very rich Mamatas: the richest Mamatas: like literally, i read he was

Derleth: ok so Cthulhu appears, role for sanity check Elon Musk: da elf paladin, he stabba da Cthulhu with a sword! Derleth: you can't do that!! Derleth: you need at least a boat to stab Cthulhu! Brian Lumley: no wait i like the cut of this elon's gib Musk: oooo disruptiano!

Musk: i stabba da Cthulhu Derleth: ok roll to see if you can kill an elder god by stabbing Musk: eyyy i don't need to roll no dice Musk: i buya da game, so i maka da rules Musk: it works, i win, Cthulhu i killa him Musk: also my character name? issa X.

[somepsychopomp]

Alright monster fuckers, come get ur food

This is a rough draft of the first part of my Nosferatu AU, it's sort of like a prequel for what's to come. (Short summary: this is an AU where Poseidon is an undead eldritch being that's been pursuing Odysseus all his life, haunting him with nightmares and whatnot)

Mainly I would really appreciate some feedback about how fucked up crazy nasty ugly to make Poseidon. Like if he's an otherworldly being risen from the depths, should he be super ugly like Orlok or should I betray the original source material by making him sexy?

I'm mostly conflicted because this is an AU where he's still kind of the god of the seas, but is more of a Cthulhu-esque entity that was slumbering at the bottom of the ocean before being awoken by Odysseus' prayers.

The bedroom was dark and silent, save for the unsteady breathing of a nervous child. With trembling hands, he stood before his open window and struck two stones together until enough sparks flew to light the wick of his candle. 

The wind coming off the sea at this hour was frigid and biting, raising pebbles across the boy’s skin as he watched the candle’s flame rise high before setting and giving off a small circle of orange light. 

He wasn’t supposed to be awake at this hour. If anyone caught him, surely his mother and father would reprimand him in the morning. 

Odysseus knelt on a woven wool mat before the lit candle and raised his palms to the moon in supplication. Keeping his head bowed, he closed his eyes and prayed to the gods. 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice shaking from the cold of winter’s night. “Please, hear my prayers. My father grows old, my sister is too young. Please, send me a companion, a guardian. Someone to keep me warm at night and to play with during the day…a friend.”

The boy continued his prayers to the gods, ignoring his knees growing cold and stiff and his fingertips numb. Even so, he continued to pray. 

“Send me someone to fill my days and nights,” he asked the gods, unsure of how much time had passed since he began his prayers. 

Odysseus sniffled in the dark and the cold. Beyond his desire for companionship, he was assailed by shame. Was the love of his mother and father not enough for him? 

What of Ctimene and the way his younger sister loved to follow on his heels? 

His father’s hunting dogs, his old nursemaid? 

Odysseus did not understand why the company he had was not enough for him. He only wanted someone who knew him deeply, someone who knew him as if they were one. 

Without warning, a harsh gust of wind swept through his room. Odysseus gasped. Through his sealed eyelids, he found himself plunged into an oppressive darkness and knew his candle had gone out. 

Then… a new sound. It was similar to the wind’s groan, but not quite. 

This was deeper, raspier, more like a draft flowing through an underground cavern. It reminded him of the sound of stone grinding against stone. 

Odysseus opened his eyes and raised his head. 

A dark figure obscured the moon and stars, engulfing the boy in its shadow. 

Odysseus fell backward, a scream tearing from his throat.

The figure uttered only one word. 

“Hush.”

And Odysseus fell silent. He did not climb to his feet so much as an invisible force lifted him from the floor. 

The thing in the window, whether it was man or beast, said nothing more as it turned away and vanished. Odysseus swayed on his feet, his mind lost to a dense fog. 

Slowly, his body began to move on its own. 

He found himself wandering through the halls of his parents’ home, seeing the world through half-lidded eyes as he undid the servant’s door leading to the courtyard. He stepped outside, barefoot and without a cloak. 

Odysseus thought he was dreaming as his feet carried him down the beaten path to the beach, where the ocean shone like obsidian. Dark clouds began to fill the sky, obscuring the moon and blinding Odysseus to the darkness. Even so, he continued walking. 

The sound of the lapping waves grew deafening as Odysseus stood at the very edge of the icy waters. The figure was waiting for him. It was impossible to determine if the being was submerged in the water or standing over it. They were large, so much bigger than Odysseus was. 

A voice said to him, “Do you swear to be mine ever-eternally?”

Odysseus’ lips parted, though he could not say if it was of his own volition. 

“I do.”

All the wind died at once as a monstrous wave swallowed the figure. It surged forward, looking to Odysseus’ young eyes as if it were large enough to take all of Ithaca with it. He did not even think to flee. 

The water fell upon him with such force that all the air was pressed out of his lungs. The relentless surf tumbled him, dragging his body across the coarse sand and pulling him into the ocean. 

Odysseus kicked and flailed, his body attempting to swim for the surface, but the current was too powerful. He felt no ground beneath his feet, was he already swept out far enough to drown?

Open your eyes.

A voice spoke within his mind as if it were his own, compelling him to do as it commanded. 

Odysseus found himself floating in the black water, his face inches from a set of glowing eyes. Unlike any creature he’d ever seen before, these eyes did not blink as they gazed upon him. They weighed Odysseus down with their piercing gaze, the pupils slitted like a snake’s. 

As Odysseus’ body began to relax, as he felt compelled to take a breath and allow the water into his lungs, he had only one thought. 

That the eyes upon him were such a beautiful shade of bright blue. 

Then two arms grabbed him around the torso and hauled him to the surface. A hand patted his back, forcing him to cough up the saltwater that’d gotten in his mouth. 

“Oh, my poor boy! My Odysseus!” 

It was his father. Laertes clutched Odysseus to his chest, floating on his back as he used his other arm and his legs to swim them back to shore. Odysseus clung to his father, fear flooding his heart as he shivered in the terrible cold. 

He had very nearly drowned. 

Laertes pulled him out of the water and hauled Odysseus high up the shore before stopping to check on him. A few guards were waiting for them, bearing torches to light the darkness. They huddled around Odysseus, one of them shedding his cloak to wrap it around the boy’s shoulders. Laertes took his son’s hands and rubbed them between his own, blowing hot breath onto them to get Odysseus’ fingers to stop trembling. 

One man lowered his torch and Laertes instructed Odysseus to hold his hands near the fire. The king moved onto his son’s feet, rubbing and squeezing them to encourage circulation. 

He said, “My son, what happened to you? Why in the world would you go wandering out in the dark like this?”

Laertes found cuts on the bottom of his child’s feet. He couldn’t tell if they were from the rough stone path or the beach. 

Odysseus tried to answer his father, he really did. But his lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling. He sucked in a breath, then another, and began to cry. 

“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry…”

Laertes decided enough was enough. It was too cold for any of them to be outside at this hour, especially his soaking wet son. The king took Odysseus into his arms, and though he was also dripping sea water, Laertes hardly felt even a chill in the air as he carried his son home. 

Odysseus buried his face in his father’s shoulder. He was cold and embarrassed to be crying when he thought of himself as a big boy by now. 

He just had his seventh birthday. 

Open your eyes. 

The voice compelled Odysseus to look up. Far away, a strange and tall shape floated in the water, a black shadow that slowly sank below the surface. Odysseus squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t open them again until he was back inside, where his mother’s arms awaited him.

[konigsblog]

mmf' , i just want eldritch/cthulh!könig to take care of me. headcannons for him because he rots my mine, day and night ... :(

cthulhu!könig who finds himself crawling towards you with his lengthy cock hanging heavy, smelling your period blood from a mile away. he eats fish and dead men, sunken boats that dare to cross his path, along with deceased sea animals. he can't help himself from wrapping his long, murky tentacles around your thighs, keeping your cunt against his mouth as he drags his tongue up and down between your wet, sloppy slit.

“please, sonne, just relax against me. taste so good, so good for me..”

cthulhu!könig and his jealousy issue. he can't stand seeing other sea gods flirt with you in an attempt to swoon over you. but god, he loves making you ride his tentacles after declining them, easing down onto his thick limp, suckers grazing against your gummy walls.

cthulhu!könig who orders you to chant his name while he fucks you. usually, his sex is slow and sensual, with one tentacle stuffed inside youe sweet, precious pussy and another silencing your whiney sounds. but, he adores your stuttered sounds as you chant his name like a prayer to an ancient god.

cthulhu!könig and his breeding kink. he's so fascinated with the idea of breeding you, to see you with a human/octopus hybrid, cradled in your arms. but, due to his issues with jealousy and your attention, he prefers it just being you two. though, he does mention getting you pregnant while you cockwarm a tentacle, his suckers leaking out their substances into your womb, making you sob out in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“gott, ich möchte dich geschwollen mit meinen babys sehen, einen kleinen oktopus, der in diesem bauch wächst ... meine süße meerjungfrau, du bist so naiv, du weißt nicht, was du mit mir machst, keine ahnung, oder?”

cthulhu!könig being overprotective and possessive of you. you're his most prized possession, a mortal, a human soon to be turned to immortal once he impregnates you with his offspring. he hates whenever other sea gods have their eyes on you, glaring at the before snarling, brushing the wet hair stick to your forehead as he eases your head into the water, washing your hair.

cthulhu!könig who always buys you proper pearl necklaces, as well as other shells. the faint sounds of the ocean in the distance, the sun just rising above the horizon, breathless from könig's tentacles wrapped tightly and securely around your waist. he definitely scolds you whenever you complain, hissing at you and being strict, keeping you from ever leaving.

“don't, meine schatz ... still still, sonnenschein.”

he has a fear of someone taking you, so he usually stays with you. he'd kill for you, other sea gods, do anything to keep you from going back to society.

cthulhu!könig and how he coos at you for being so grumpy and pissy about being away from your friends and family. why do you need anyone else? let the 10ft muscular giant with a gut keep you safe!! your life isn't in jeopardy or danger, just spread your legs and let him treat you right.

⭒ if you want to correct any german, please do so! im not educated on the german language so i have to use a translator for it, but i don't mind constructive criticism to help with it :)