#hollowed be thy name

[fatshyt]

She believed.

He did too.

You heard it right. Fat shyt is becoming a Christian blog.

[realitybitesyouknowit]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Theodore Nott, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Sirius Black & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson & Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter & Weasley Family Characters: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Teddy Lupin, (Teddy Tonks-Potter), Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Lily Luna Potter, (Lily Hermione Lovegood-Weasley) Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Everybody Lives, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied Sexual Content, like a lil - Freeform, Auror Harry Potter, its mentioned a bit, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Hermione Granger is Attracted to Quidditch Players, LMAO, Ron Weasley is Our King, literally every wizard ever watching these bitches eyefuck every day, tonks is teddy's mum but harry adopted him, rated t for harrys sinful waist, harry literally living with ron and hermione: hmmmmmmmm i wonder if they feel the same, Alcohol, american kid tries to learn british slang, Fluff and Angst Series: Part 1 of pluto Summary:

Ron Weasley-Granger realized he was in love with Harry Potter the same way someone would look at a book and realize they could read. Never changing, and always there.

Hermione Weasley-Granger realized she was in love with Harry Potter as if she’d been flung backward through a brick wall at full force.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.2. - Suffocation Day pt. 1.

viktorxfemale!reader nothing filthy yet but will be :v, gothic AU

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

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 5,2K

sources: Slavic Mythology by Jakub Bobrowski & Mateusz Wrona, Slavic Bestiary by Witold Vargas and Paweł Zych, Mythology of Slavs by Aleksander Gieysztor

online sources: proto-Slavic wiki, proto-Slavic nouns wiki, proto-Slavic lemmas, proto-Slavic dictionary, this shitty translator

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Upon the boundless depths of a dark sea floats a small wooden boat. Above it, a sky of pale blue flame flickers, its glow reflected in the stagnant waters below.

On the boat sits a man, his face severe, framed by a thick white beard and long white hair. A hammer rests at his feet. He gazes into nothingness until his eyes drop to the surface of the water.

There, beneath the glassy sheet, another man is trapped. Eyes stare back at him, a hand reaching out.

They grasp each other—arms strong and broad—and from the reflection, a second man emerges. His hair and beard are black as he pulls himself onto the boat and takes his place beside the first.

The two men sit in silence, the boat rocking ever so slightly on the lifeless water. Then, at last, they speak. Their voices are low, words curl and twist in the air, slipping between languages, none of which you fully understand—until, suddenly, you do. Their conversation sharpens, growing familiar. A name drifts through the heavy stillness.

Your breath catches. The faintest sound escapes your lips—no more than a shift of breath, a flutter of hesitation. Both heads snap toward you, their gazes piercing, unblinking.

Your feet slip and icy water swallows you whole. Darkness crushes your lungs as you sink, limbs too numb to fight against the pull. The cold is unbearable, seeping through bone and marrow, hollowing you out. You try to grasp for air, but there is none, only the weight of the deep pressing you further down.

The last bubble of breath escapes your lips—

“Oh, Miss, forgive my intrusion, I did not mean to startle,” says the maid, her brow furrowed in concern. “Did you not sleep well?”

“That’s… quite alright,” you reply, still catching your breath. Your pulse is unsteady, the remnants of your dream clinging to the edges of wakefulness. “Just a dream. Might be the new place.” You try to muster a smile, brushing tangled hair from your face.

She nods, hesitant. Young, you notice—perhaps younger than you would expect Viktor to employ. “May I assist you with dressing, Miss?” she asks, stepping closer to the bed, hands neatly folded in front of her.

“That would be lovely,” you say, shifting to sit upright. A pause, then, with a curious tilt of your head, you ask, “What is your name?”

“Ethel Parks, Miss,” she replies with a small curtsy. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Ethel,” you say, offering a warmer smile this time. You glance around the room, then sigh. “My clothes… they are—” You trail off, glancing toward the trunk at the foot of your bed.

“Still in the trunk?” Ethel finishes for you, already moving toward it. She kneels gracefully, lifting the lid with practiced ease. “No trouble at all, Miss. I shall have you dressed in no time.”

Ethel works with quiet efficiency, her hands swift but gentle as she selects the garments from your trunk. She lays each piece carefully across the bed before turning back to you with an expectant look.

“If you would, Miss,” she says, stepping forward with a fresh chemise.

You rise from the bed, the chill of the morning air prickling against your skin as you allow her to slip the soft linen over your head. It drapes loosely over your frame, its delicate lace trim brushing against your collarbone. Next comes the corset—sturdy whalebone and brocade, its dusky hue a contrast against the pale chemise beneath.

Ethel moves behind you, gathering the laces in her hands. “Breathe in, Miss,” she instructs gently.

You do as told, exhaling as she begins tightening the stays. The first few pulls are tolerable, the firm pressure familiar, but then she draws the laces a little too tight. The breath you take is shallow, restricted. You feel the steel busk press uncomfortably against your ribs.

“Is that alright, Miss?” Ethel asks, a note of concern in her voice.

Weary of offending your host or implying dissatisfaction with his household, you hesitate before answering. “It is fine,” you say, voice even. You have endured worse for fashion’s sake.

She ties the laces securely before guiding you to sit so she may fasten your stockings, rolling them up your legs and securing them with garters at your thighs. Over this, she helps you into a petticoat of crisp cotton, its ruffled hem brushing against your ankles.

Finally, she lifts the day dress from the bed—a deep, rich shade of dark blue, its bodice structured and trimmed with subtle embroidery. The sleeves are fitted to your wrists, buttoned neatly along the cuffs, while the skirt cascades in elegant folds, flaring just enough over the petticoats beneath. She fastens the bodice at the back, button by button, the fabric smoothing over the restrictive corset beneath.

“There,” Ethel murmurs, stepping back to assess her work. She smooths an invisible wrinkle from your sleeve before offering you a polite smile. “You look very fine, Miss.”

You incline your head in thanks, though the tightness of the corset does not allow for much movement. As you adjust to the restriction, you remind yourself that it would be ungracious to complain.

Politely, Ethel urges you to a chair, and only now do you take note of the fact that the room has no vanity—Viktor must not be used to female company. Instead, a large mirror, round and heavily ornamented, is wedged into a corner. The girl pulls the chair in front of it and gestures for you to sit as she begins pinning your hair.

She struggles a bit, her fingers fumbling with the pins. Noticing her difficulty, you decide to engage her in conversation. “You don’t do this too often, do you?” you ask, watching her through the mirror’s reflection.

“Uh—f-forgive me, my lady,” she stammers, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks. “Me and the other girls do each other’s hair, but it’s nothing too fancy.”

“That is quite alright,” you assure her. After a brief pause, you add, “I take it Mr. Velesny doesn’t host many female guests?”

“No, not anymore,” she replies absentmindedly, twisting a section of your hair and securing it with another pin. She huffs a small laugh at her own struggle. “I suppose your lady’s maid is more efficient.”

“Oh, I don’t have one. Look,” you say, reaching up, gently taking a section of your hair from her hands. With practiced ease, you twist it and secure it in place with only two pins. “Nothing too fancy either.”

Ethel pauses for a moment, her expression shifting to mild surprise. Then, she grins. “Well, that makes two of us, Miss.”

She straightens her skirts and gives you a polite nod before leaving. “Breakfast will be served for you in the dining room in fifteen minutes, my lady.” With that, Ethel disappears.

You sigh—as much as you can while so tightly bound—and wonder if it’s going to be another lonely meal. Last night, Viktor hadn’t shown up to dinner. In the late hours, you had heard him shuffling through the corridors, his slow steps dragging as though he were hauling his tired body upstairs to his bedchambers.

The atmosphere had been eerie, to say the least. Eating in complete silence, where each clank of cutlery echoed in your ears like a church bell, was unsettling enough—but the lingering sensation of being watched had only added to your nerves.

And it’s not only the dining room. The house feels uninhabited, despite its grandeur. The corridors stretch long and hollow, the air thick with stillness, as though the very walls have forgotten the sound of laughter, of life. Servants move like whispers, their presence almost imperceptible—footsteps muffled, voices hushed.

Yet, despite their quiet existence, you cannot shake the feeling that you are never truly alone.

Each room carries a presence, something just beyond your reach. It’s not the dust-laden scent of age nor the weight of history pressed into the furniture. It is something else—an awareness. The library, lined with its watchful tomes, seems to breathe in your presence, its silence heavy. The music room, though untouched, hums with an unplayed melody, waiting. The grand dining hall, with its impossibly long table and its rows of empty chairs, feels like it is expecting someone—something—to arrive.

There is no laughter, no voices, no sign that this place is truly lived in—only Viktor, lingering in barely three rooms, as far as you can tell from the state of his study and the drawing room. His bedroom is an educated guess.

As you descend the staircase, you glance behind yourself, your eyes flicking to the one room Algernon pointedly avoided mentioning during your short tour. The door is unremarkable, set in an equally unremarkable part of the house. It could be a guest bedroom, another study, something entirely mundane. And yet, your curiosity—an unhealthy, troublesome little thing—stirs as you stare at it, half-expecting the door to vanish under your gaze, revealing the room’s secret.

A bell rings, breaking your trance—the breakfast call.

Crossing the ground floor, you catch a glimpse of Viktor seated on the sofa in the drawing room. Of course. You hesitate, watching him, willing him to lift his head and meet your gaze.

“Good day,” he says, his eyes still focused on the parchment spread across his knees. “How was your first night?”

He wears only a vest again, with a shirt underneath, this time paired with a cravat. His legs are spread, one crossed over the other in front of him, and a cane—different from yesterday’s—rests against the sofa. His hair is combed back neatly, and his chin is propped in his hand as he watches the paper before him.

“Ah, a bit restless,” you reply, brushing a hand through your hair as you try to shake off the lingering unease. “But I’ll settle in. Are you not headed for breakfast?”

“I take my meals here or in my study,” he replies, finally lifting his head. He pauses, taking you in with an inquisitive look, his gaze sweeping from your head to your toes twice, before he speaks again. “You are welcome to join me here after breakfast, though. We can compare sources.”

“I shall see you then,” you incline your head politely, turning to move on, your stomach tied in a knot—literally and figuratively, as your waist feels a little tighter with each movement. At breakfast, you don’t eat much, picking at the food on your plate. You poke at the soft scrambled eggs, the golden-brown toast, and the small serving of sausage, though you find it hard to swallow anything. The meal is prepared for one person only—just a modest serving, a single boiled egg resting in its shell beside a slice of buttered bread. You stay in the dining room long enough to avoid appearing too eager, though it’s a ridiculous thought. After all, you should be eager to complete your assignment.

You eventually push your plate aside and head toward your room to retrieve your books. You take as many as you can carry, clutching a small stack in your arms. As you reach the staircase, Algernon unexpectedly appears, almost as if out of nowhere.

“Miss,” he says with a polite smile, “may I assist you with those?”

You blink, startled, but nod. “Ah, thank you, Algernon. I’m afraid I’ve become rather burdened by these.”

Together, you make your way down the stairs, and you offer him a faint smile as you place the books on the table in the drawing room. Viktor, still seated on the sofa, an empty plate beside him, looks up from his papers.

“Is that all, or is there more?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m afraid there is an entire trunk,” you reply, shaking your head slightly.

“Would you be opposed to having it moved to my study?” Viktor offers, his voice surprisingly casual, though his eyes remain sharp.

“Not at all,” you reply.

He turns his attention to the butler. “Algernon, can you please arrange that? Oh, and close the door behind you.”

Algernon nods and moves to obey, swiping the empty plate, leaving you alone with Viktor as he returns to his reading. His finger follows the lines of text, and you notice how quickly he swallows the words, his gaze sharp and focused. As he reaches the end of the page, he turns to you, still standing in the middle of the room, and says, “Why don’t you take a seat?”

You nod, suddenly unable to speak, and rest on the other side of the sofa, as straight as you can manage, your hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Are you nervous?” Viktor asks, his voice soft but observant.

“No,” you reply, though the unease still lingers in your chest. “Just… adjusting to a new space.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t pry further. Instead, he shifts closer and places a stack of papers on your knees. “I suppose I should break down the case for you,” he says quietly. “I’ve been called to a household nearby, where family members claim that a mysterious illness takes its relatives one by one. Doctors excluded the possibility of it being contagious.”

“What are the symptoms?” you ask, browsing the documentation he’s handed you.

“How versed are you in medicine?” he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, mildly,” you answer, flipping through the pages. “I had basic anatomy classes. Why?”

“It seems to be a breathing affliction that takes them—lung failure of some kind,” Viktor says, his voice steady and measured more than the situation requires. You take note of the calmness in his demeanour, even as the matter at hand seems grave.

“Are all of them afflicted?” you ask, scanning the details in the papers.

“Only men, it would seem. And one woman, long ago, when the pattern first started. I’ve managed to get only this much information from the family head,” Viktor explains. “They have decided to engage me upon finding some writing in the basement.”

“And you believe if we discover what this writing is saying, the curse will be broken?” You ask with a polite smile, though your disbelief is clear. “Could the sickness be inherited?”

“Could be. Could not be,” Viktor replies simply, his gaze narrowing as he waits for you to give away more about your stance in this.

“Ah, as anything in this world, no?” you murmur, your tone dry.

“Are you leaning toward endorsing the 'con man' title of mine?” Viktor asks, a slight edge to his voice as he looks at you, his breath fanning across your cheek. Before you can respond, he continues, “I’m not asking you to believe anything. I’m merely asking you to translate the text for me, if you are capable.”

You consider his request for a moment, then reply, “I would like to see the writing in its original form, if that’s possible.” You pause, meeting his gaze. “And I’ve known you too short a time to lean into endorsing any rumour about you.”

Viktor’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “That can be arranged,” he says, his voice softening. “And thank you. For the benefit of the doubt.”

“Anytime,” you whisper, suddenly very aware of how close he’s gotten. Your thighs brush, and even through all the layers of skirts you’re wearing, you can feel the heat radiating off him. He doesn’t retreat; his eyes wander to your hands, your neck, then to your waist.

“Is your corset too tight?” he asks all of a sudden, his tone hushed, private.

It strikes you how Viktor behaves as if he has no idea how to act around people. What you don’t know is whether he doesn’t care or truly doesn’t know how. He is polite, yes, soft-spoken, well-spoken even, possibly even more well-read than you are, and yet, any occasion presenting itself to close the distance, he takes it as it is, without pushing for more. Eating crumbs of warmth, he abandons the rules of decorum and lingers right next to you, finger pointing at your waist, waiting.

You decide to test this strange occurrence further. Shifting so that you are angled toward him, your knee bumping his, you rest your palm on his forearm gently and say, “It’s nothing. Why would you ask?”

Viktor blinks, but holds your gaze. “Your breathing is shallow and uneven. It’s either the undergarment, or you are falling with an affliction yourself,” he replies flatly, seemingly ignoring the fact that you are touching him.

“I… might be a little bit nervous after all,” you say, thinking you are covering for yourself with a lie, while in fact, there is a truth lingering beneath it. “You are very perceptive.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But I suspect you are too,” he smiles, looking down upon his arm, where your hand rests. Discovered for what you are trying to do, you retreat, grasp the papers from your knees in both hands, and smooth them out with a shake.

An odd moment of cards being laid out on the table for both of you. One thing is sure: this cooperation will be conducted on even ground, as Viktor just admitted you are a worthy opponent, if there are any opposing forces between you. The second thing, that you are also certain of, is that you are going to learn a lot—if not about your field of expertise, then about human nature overall. The third thing, and that one is less certain, yet the one you wish for the most—you are going to learn something about him. And not whether he is a con man, a mad scientist, or a crazy fool who has sworn his soul away to diabolical forces. No. Just what kind of man he is.

You swallow all those thoughts in a loud gulp and ask, “Shall we… compare sources then?”

“Certainly,” Viktor perks up, leaving your personal space. “I have the most important things here; if you would like to delve deeper, we can meet later in my study.”

He walks up to a large table, completely covered with books, papers, and diagrams. You notice he leans on his cane heavily as he urges you to come meet him above the surface. You move closer, enamoured by the sheer amount of material he has amassed.

"Here," he begins, his voice low as he points to several old tomes stacked haphazardly. "These are the sources I've been consulting. Some are rather obscure, but I believe they hold key insights into the nature of the case we're investigating." He picks up a worn volume with a dark, embossed cover.

"The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum by Johann Weyer," he continues, his finger tracing the title. "It’s a text on demonology, from the sixteenth century, detailing the names, symbols, and descriptions of demons. Weyer was a physician, though many dismiss his work as mere superstition, I find his cataloguing of entities fascinating. There are often correlations between health conditions and historical beliefs in demonic possession."

You lean in, glancing at the pages filled with names of infernal entities. "And you really think this illness might be linked to something... supernatural?"

Viktor raises an eyebrow, an unreadable expression on his face. "Not necessarily. But in my line of research, I have found it wise not to discard the past entirely. There is often more truth in the ancient than many care to admit." He places the book aside and picks up another, this one titled De Occulta Philosophia by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa.

"Then there’s Agrippa," Viktor says, his fingers lightly stroking the cover of the book. "His work on the occult and alchemy is as important as any text on natural philosophy. This book connects the metaphysical with the physical—much of what he writes here is directly tied to my own theories on the relationship between the mind, body, and the universe."

You nod, intrigued but slightly unsettled by the nature of the texts he holds dear. “So, you’re suggesting that there’s a connection between the spiritual and physical? That this affliction could be a manifestation of something more profound?”

Viktor meets your gaze, his eyes bright with excitement, alive and almost child-like, as if this is the first time he’s being actually listened to. “Exactly. I’ve studied the works of ancient scholars and scientists—those who dared to ask the unaskable questions. Like De Re Metallica by Georgius Agricola, for example. It’s a treatise on mining and metallurgy, and it’s filled with chemical theories. But Agricola also touches on the relationship between minerals and the natural world, an ancient view that health could be governed by the balance of elemental forces within the body.”

You glance at the text, its pages yellowed with age. "I’ve heard of scholars pointing imbalance of elements as a source of many afflictions, so I suppose this could be a lead."

"Potentially," Viktor replies. "But it’s not just the elements. I also suspect there’s something in the stars. Propaedeumata Aphoristica by John Dee, a treatise on the celestial bodies, may hold some answers. Dee was an astrologer, mathematician, and alchemist, deeply interested in how the positions of the stars and planets might influence human health." He runs his finger over a complex astrological chart spread across the table. "If the illness is not genetic or purely physical, then perhaps there’s a celestial influence, a pattern hidden in the stars themselves."

You let out a soft breath, a half-chuckle. "I’m quite familiar with Dee, call it a hobby," you say, offering Viktor a soft smile, your voice light, yet imbued with a quiet warmth.

Viktor’s gaze flickers to you, his brow furrowing for just a moment, before he tilts his head. "Oh? Are you interested in star movements?" His voice carries an unexpected note of hope, a quiet longing that tugs at something deep within you.

You glance at him, catching the subtle shift in his tone. “Yes, it’s an intriguing topic, don’t you think? Even for a linguist.” You allow your gaze to linger on him, watching the way the soft seeping from the windows catches the sharp angles of his face. His eyes seem to soften, as he blinks away an expression of astonishment.

"Absolutely. I do have a telescope, if you wish to take a closer look." Again, hopeful. Private, as he adds, "At the stars, of course. We would have to wait for a clear night though."

Your cheeks heat up, yet you don’t know why. It feels like an invitation, and now it is you who allows yourself a hopeful tone. "That would be… most remarkable," you say, your voice softer than you intended.

His eyes meet yours, a spark appears and disappears, before he lowers his gaze to the diagrams again, his fingers brushing across the paper absently. "The sky is quite remarkable when looked upon closely," he murmurs quietly, longingly.

Wondering what it is he is longing for, you swallow the first question that comes to mind and exchange it for another. "What else have you gathered?"

Viktor leans forward, his fingers brushing over a particularly detailed diagram. "Mathematics, astronomy, and even the occult are all linked. Consider The Elements of Geometry by Euclid—geometry’s relationship to the physical and metaphysical worlds is undeniable. It’s through patterns, both mathematical and celestial, that we might uncover the truth of this, eh, let’s call it curse. I’ve been mapping these patterns for some time now, trying to correlate the celestial alignments with the onset of the illness."

You watch him as he pulls out a small, intricate notebook, filled with numbers and diagrams. “And here," he says, flipping it open, "I've been applying some principles from The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Isaac Newton. His work on gravity, the laws of motion—they can help explain how forces, unseen but powerful, might govern the flow of life and health within the human body. It’s a matter of understanding the unseen forces."

You pause, your gaze shifting over the dense pages of mathematical equations and celestial charts. "It seems you have found many ways to approach the same problem," you say, your voice tinged with admiration at the breadth of his studies, when something strikes you. "Viktor, how long ago have you been called to this particular case?"

Viktor’s gaze sharpens, his eyes locking onto yours with a new intensity. "About a month ago, why?"

"This is not an amount of research one conducts within a month, though, is it?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Viktor’s eyes flicker for a moment, he looks at you intently, his expression firm. "I… I work fast when I’m inspired," he replies, his voice a little more guarded.

You study him, noticing the subtle shift. “Have you encountered anything similar before?” you probe softly.

“Not that I am aware of,” he answers, his voice calm, though faintly uncertain. “I have been doing this for a long time, I assure you.”

Taking a moment to absorb, your fingers skim over the papers in front of you. “Alright then. Well, I can identify one thing missing, and it will be rather difficult to piece together,” you say after a beat, looking up at him, letting the matter drop.

“What is it?” Viktor asks, leaning in.

“I believe to decipher this,” you say, pointing at the mysterious text Viktor has scribbled down from the doomed basement’s walls, "We need to dip into proto-Slavic languages and mythology, and that matter is not well documented.” You pause, considering your next words. “I do have some treaties and legends with me, scarce, but it’s a starting point. We can also compare across other mythologies, as they tend to overlap.”

Viktor’s eyes widen with curiosity. “That’s… quite brilliant,” he says, his voice laced with admiration, his expression a mix of surprise and respect.

“Thank you,” you reply with a modest smile, though your gaze remains steady on the text. “I have been doing this for a long time, I assure you.”

Viktor huffs out a laugh, a beautiful sound, you realise. It’s a low hum, coming from his trembling throat, escaping through his noble nose and it bestows more upon you than any recognition he’s spoken out loud.

“I will need some time to sit with the text,” you continue quietly. “And as I mentioned, I would like to see it in person.”

Viktor nods, his expression softening. "Certainly. I will need three days to arrange this—the family is quite distressed, we have to give them some time to prepare,” he explains, his voice quiet but filled with an unexpected warmth. It strikes you then—this man is no fraud, no devil-worshipper, no evil scientist. The concern in his tone betrays a deep compassion for the decimated family, and you suspect this eagerness is fuelled by something far closer to his heart than he lets on.

You nod, a sense of understanding passing between you. “Of course. I shall see you later in your study?”

Viktor gives you a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Yes. Please, just come and knock—we can lose the formality of announcement."

There’s a brief pause before Viktor steps back, turning his attention to the disarray of papers on the table. You gather the materials you need, and with a polite nod, retreat to the library to conduct your study in peace.

Just as you are leaving, Algernon appears again, seemingly out of nowhere, and you begin to wonder if the walls have ears in this household.

“My lady, if I may be so bold, the staff has gathered to meet you,” he says firmly, ushering you through the hall. Before you can answer, you are met with many pairs of eyes, each one different, every single one staring at you blankly.

“Ethel, you’ve already met,” he says. “At your disposal are also Annika and Lydia,” Algernon introduces. The girls incline their heads as soon as their names are spoken.

Then, he gestures to the figures standing near the wall, their expressions as inscrutable as the rest of the staff.

“These are the rest of the household,” he continues, his voice never wavering. “Thomas Barrow, the groundskeeper.” A tall, weathered man nods politely, his hands clasped behind his back.

“James Kent,” Algernon adds, pointing to a young man standing near the fireplace. James stands straight, his eyes steady and respectful as he meets your gaze.

“And this is Bohdan,” Algernon finishes, indicating a quieter figure beside James. Bohdan’s strong build stands in contrast to his slightly apprehensive smile, though his gaze is warm, and he gives a small bow.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Algernon’s voice softens a little as he turns to the final figure, “Ivy Stuart, the cook. She has been with the family for years.” A short woman with a round face and kind eyes steps forward. She offers you a pleasant smile, though there’s a quiet pride in the way she holds herself.

“One more,” Algernon says, with a slight pause. “Mrs. Dunlop, the housekeeper, is not present at the moment, but she is in charge of the house, and you’ll be seeing her shortly.”

“There you have it,” Algernon concludes. “Each of them at your service.”

“Thank you kindly,” you say, a bit embarrassed. It makes you wonder why now, and how difficult it must have been to gather such a sparse staff in one place at last. Steadying yourself with a breath does little to help, as the corset remains unforgivingly tight, not loosened in the least during the debrief. Unsure of what is expected of you, you incline your head and say quietly, “I am headed to the library.”

“Ring for us should you require anything, my lady,” says Algernon, giving a dismissive flick of his wrist. The staff disperses in no time, quiet as phantoms.

In just a few seconds, all sound dies away, and the house returns to the eerie silence of a ghost ship. With the soft creaks of the stairs beneath you, you ascend, gliding your palm along the handrail, papers and notes stacked under your arm.

It’s a strange mixture of comfort and disquiet—Viktor’s persona shifting from eager to reserved, the manor being both beautiful and gloomy, and the staff acting both attentive and absent. You feel as though there are many missing pieces, much like the riddle that you and Viktor are now trying to solve. With your mind drifting and breath shallow, you head towards the library when a sound—barely there—stops you. A whisper, curling within the walls, gliding through the air. It means nothing, nothing you recognize. It feels as though the Grim Reaper himself stands towering above you, taking a long whiff of the top of your head. Your hair rises, and goosebumps prickle the skin on the back of your neck. As you turn towards the door—unremarkable, unopened—a voice from the void says: imě.

[concretejunglefm]

Summary: While struggling with internalised shame and feelings of unworthiness, you turn to priest!Noah, who offers comfort through his tender worship and unwavering devotion for you.

Pairing: priest!Noah Sebastian x dom f!reader

CW: includes religious themes, reader mentioned as once religious bordering agnostic, mentions of dom/sub dynamics, light body worshiping, angst in the form of relationship doubts, implied death/grief of a loved one, religious guilt, inattentive former partners, hurt comfort vibes with elements of fluff, declarations of love.

WC: 3.5k.

You can’t recall how long you’ve been hovering outside the church, pacing back and forth, arguing with that little voice inside your head about whether or not to go in.

You’ve never really been religious, you dabbled in it as a child, kneeling at your bedside come nightfall, reading “thy kingdom come” from a child’s hardback Bible, whispering prayers like they were wishes.

You grew into something more agnostic, perhaps still holding onto a faint bit of hope until bitterness twisted the knife—watching the pain and suffering of a loved one can do that, and yet, somehow, you always find yourself drawn back, like a lost lamb seeking their shepherd. As if, deep down, you still believe that lighting a candle and praying to the Virgin Mary, asking for the guidance and wisdom of another woman, might somehow answer all your questions.

It never does. Instead, you’re left hollow, with too many unanswered questions and a mind buzzing with unwanted thoughts. Right now, it’s the latter, and when you hear your name spoken by a familiar voice, one that always invokes warmth and calm, you feel the cracks begin to form in the dam you’ve been holding everything back with.

“There isn’t a sermon today, you know.” Amusement seeps into his voice. You’re sure he’s about to follow it with the usual playful remark, that you just wanted to come by and see him, like he always does, and usually, there’s truth to that, but not today.

“I know, Noa—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head as you correct yourself. “Father.” 

Normally, that would prompt him to gently insist you don’t need to be so formal, not even while wearing the collar, but this time, his expression shifts, growing somber, serious, as if he can sense the storm brewing inside you.

“Is something wrong?”

Your eyes drop to his hands, tracing the intricate tattoos that curl up his forearms, just visible beneath his sleeves. You force yourself to look away, stepping back instinctively, retreating like a wounded animal. When you glance up again, you catch something flickering in his gaze—sadness? Caution?

But just like you’ve seen him do with frightened animals at the shelter, he doesn’t back down. His voice remains gentle, soothing, as he approaches, keeping a respectful distance. He extends an arm, open and inviting, guiding you toward the church’s open doors.

“Come in. We can talk, if you need to.”

And truthfully, that’s why you’re here. You need someone to talk to, and who better than the young priest who always offers guidance and a listening ear, without judgment.

“Can I get you some tea?” Noah asks, pulling out a chair for you to settle into.

“No. No, thank you.” You shake your head as you sit, your fingers gripping the hem of your dress, toying with the fabric in a nervous habit.

When Noah takes his seat, it’s close enough that his knee brushes against yours, a grounding touch, while still maintaining a respectful distance.

“It’s silly,” you murmur, shaking your head, already blinking back tears.

As if on cue, Noah is there, offering a tissue and resting a soothing hand on your forearm, his voice gentle. “Nothing could ever be silly. Not if it has you feeling like this.”

You let out a short, shaky laugh, because you don’t want to break down again. The first time you did, you ran and hid from him, but this time, you’ve let yourself open up just a little more, stripping back another layer.

For a moment, you look at him, and he holds your gaze. There’s no judgment in his eyes—only warmth, softness, and the quiet willingness to listen. If he weren’t a priest, he could’ve been a counselor. It would have suited him just as well.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he assures you, his hands folding together, fingers interlocked as his arms rest on his thighs.

It’s as if he’s holding himself back—fighting the urge to reach for you, to make this something it shouldn’t be, not within the quiet confines of his office.

“I feel…” You take a breath, tilting your head back, blinking away the tears still threatening to spill. You try to summon a hard exterior, hoping it will protect you somehow, but there always comes a moment when it starts to crack. Like now. “…like there’s something wrong with me.”

Noah doesn’t rush in to correct you. He doesn’t pry or fill the silence with reassurance. He just sits with you, watching, listening, and somehow, that’s more comforting, knowing he’s holding space for you, letting you say what you need to say without interruption.

“The things we’ve done…” you continue, and his brow furrows, a distinct crease of worry appearing, but still, he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to steer the conversation.

You exhale shakily, your gaze dropping to the tissue now crumpled between your fingers. You twist it, trying to keep your hands busy, to keep your emotions at bay.

“Sometimes I worry that you’re just doing them for me, and—”

Your voice catches in your throat. The words fracture, and that’s when Noah moves, breaking his composure just enough to reach out and gently lay his hands over yours.

“Look at me,” he says softly, tilting his head, urging you with his voice alone.

But you can’t. You just close your eyes and shake your head, fingers tightening as your whole body trembles under the weight of everything you’ve been holding back.

“I can’t… I can’t feel like I’m just taking advantage. Like I’m using someone who’s…” Your voice breaks, crumbling into a sob.

Noah’s hands squeeze yours, firm and grounding, as you dip your head to your chest, finally unable to hold back the tears. Everything you’ve kept bottled up—shame, guilt, fear—crashes into you like waves against rocks, and something inside him breaks, too. Seeing you like this, so undone, when you’re always so composed, so strong, it makes him ache to care for you, to be someone you can lean on, for you to allow him to.

He whispers your name, but it doesn’t reach you at first, not until you blink through your tears and see that he’s moved, now kneeling before you. His hands still hold yours gently, grounding you. 

“You are not taking advantage of anyone.”

You start to speak, but he hushes you softly, his eyes locked on yours—red-rimmed and glassy with tears. Your body still trembles with quiet sobs as tears roll steadily down your cheeks.

“And there is nothing wrong with you for enjoying the things that you like.”

That makes you look away, but he sees it, the shame and guilt you’re trying to stuff back into Pandora’s box. Somehow, you’ve exposed more of yourself to him than you meant to, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks ready to worship every piece you’ve revealed.

Outside the sanctity of your bedroom—your playroom—it feels embarrassing, somehow, to hear him speak of those moments you’ve shared. To be reminded of how you’ve both taken and given, how it’s always been mutual, fulfilling, and sacred, in its own way.

“Noah…” you whisper, finally meeting his eyes again. They light up instantly, the way a puppy’s might when called by someone they love.

“Yes?”

His hands leave yours to cradle your face, coaxing you to keep your gaze on him. His thumbs brush gently across your cheeks, wiping away the tears with reverence.

You murmur something too quiet to hear at first, about feeling unlovable, about your past, about the years you spent suppressing your desires, about the guilt—religious guilt—that still clings to your throat like a bitter aftertaste.

He looks at you, almost offended, like you’ve insulted him. “You’re not hard to love. And you’re not unlovable.” His voice remains soft, steady. There’s no trace of annoyance in his tone—only a quiet, unwavering desire to help you see yourself the way he does. “You just… need to let me in. Let me show you that you’re just as worthy of love as anyone else.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it,” you murmur, eyes falling away from his.

His hands slip from your cheeks. He reaches for one of yours, turning it gently in his palm before lifting it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against the pulse point on your wrist.

“You do,” he whispers.

You watch him, a tight knot forming in your stomach, because you don’t know how to tell him the things that have shaped you, that you’ve heard differently for years, that people have taken advantage of you, that you’ve been in his place before—under the hand of a dom—only you were second-guessing, giving everything, following blindly, and now, somehow, you’ve become the one leading, but all you feel is a desperate fear that you’re steering him somewhere he doesn’t truly want to go, no matter how many times he assures you otherwise.

“No…” you whisper, shaking your head.

Noah peers up at you with those soft, puppy-like eyes, full of nothing but adoration. He trusts you—completely. He would devote himself to you in a heartbeat if you asked, and, truthfully, he already does.

“You do. Please—more than that—I want to be the one to love you. Please, let me love you.” His voice is pleading, almost desperate, begging you to let him give the love he’s been holding back.

He wants to give you everything. He wants you to stop holding him at arm’s length, and when you finally give a soft nod, he lowers his head, brushing his mouth along the inside of your arm. He leaves featherlight kisses there, pausing at the crease of your elbow before reaching for your other arm. He extends it gently, repeating the same devotion—kissing a trail down to your wrist, where his lips press tenderly over your pulse point and it flutters beneath your skin.

“Noah,” you breathe, his name slipping out like a secret.

His head lifts slowly, and soft, doe-brown eyes meet yours. Reaching for him, your fingers comb through the long strands of his hair, following the way it cascades over his shoulders before your hand slips away.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper, shaking your head—not to dismiss him, not really, but because it feels impossible to believe. You’re bracing for him to pull back, to regret saying too much, but he doesn’t. His hands move to rest gently on your thighs. The touch is both grounding and searing—it feels bolder than anything he’s done before now.

“I mean every word,” he says quietly. “I mean it when I say that I want to love you. That I want to be with you.”

The words cause your breath to catch in your throat.

You hadn’t let yourself believe that you could ever fully have him—that this was more than physical, more than the intimate bond shared between a submissive and a Domme. Maybe you’d convinced yourself it was just devotion, just play, just need, but deep down, maybe it had always been more.

And maybe you were the one who kept drawing that line.

Because you do couple-like things: you share a bed, you eat breakfast together, you cook dinner side by side. He comes to yours for lunch, or you to his. You’ve even brought him flowers once—technically for his office, but the romantic sentiment behind them was clear, and now, he doesn’t call you Ma’am or Domina, he calls you by your name.

He kisses softly at your knees where the hem of your dress rides up, and he whispers that he wants to love you. His head rests on your thigh, eyes still looking up at you like you’ve hung the stars. Your fingers thread through his hair again. He’s looking at you with the same adoration he had from the very beginning—only now it’s deeper, fuller.

There’s a little less sadness in his gaze, a little more joy.

Did you do that?

His hands move slowly, stroking along your bare legs, and you close your eyes. The softness of his touch sparks a quiet warmth, a comfort that settles deep within you.

You want him just as much as he wants you—if not more.

“I’m scared I’ll end up hurting you,” you whisper, eyes still closed as your fingers gently rake through his hair, soothing and rhythmic. His fingers trail along your calves, featherlight, until they meet at the backs of your knees.

He doesn’t immediately dismiss your fear. He doesn’t offer empty promises. Heartbreak is a natural part of life—something everyone faces—and he’s mature enough to understand that even this, even you and him, might not go the distance.

So instead, he challenges you.

“And what if I’m the one who ends up hurting you?”

Your eyes snap open. Your mouth parts, a protest forming—but the words catch in your throat. You can’t imagine him ever hurting you. He’s soft, sweet, your sweet boy, but he doesn’t back down. He holds your gaze without faltering. You want to argue, you want to tell him he’s wrong, but instead, you fall silent, because you see the point he’s making.

Either of you could hurt the other. That’s the risk. That’s love, and right now, the only person truly hurting you is yourself, by keeping your heart locked away from someone who’s standing there, arms wide open, ready to give you the world.

“I wasn’t always a priest, you know,” he murmurs, shifting his head slightly but keeping himself nestled in your lap. He remains on his knees—not in a submissive way, but in a posture that feels reverent. Like he’s offering you not just comfort, but devotion.

You want to laugh, because it’s hard to imagine him as anything else, but his tattoos suggest otherwise. “Oh?” you manage. The tears have long since dried, but your voice is still hoarse from earlier sobs.

“I told you before that I, too, was a sinner.” The corner of his mouth quirks into a small smile, and you give him a half-hearted one in return. Not because you think he means it in a shaming way—he never has—but because you know what he means: that we’re all human, we all indulge, and that there’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

“People expected certain things of me,” he continues. “Especially past girlfriends. Tall guy with tattoos—what else could I be, if not the perfect man to throw you around the bedroom?”

There’s a flicker of sadness in his eyes then, subtle but unmistakable. It tugs at your chest, that quiet pain of being misunderstood. You know that ache too well.

Discovering your preference to be dominant in a relationship had often invited assumptions—ones you could never live up to, but you tried, you hardened yourself, and when your boundaries weren’t pushed, they were ignored, comfort being rarely offered. You were the domme—what else could you possibly need other than an obedient submissive, right?

“Then I met you,” he says softly, and something in his voice shifts, his eyes brighten, like finding you gave him a sense of purpose he hadn’t known he was missing.

“I tempted a priest,” you murmur. “I made you—”

“You made me do nothing.” His voice is firm but gentle. “I never took a vow. Not officially. Just one I made for myself.” He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s deciding whether to speak the next words. “Admittedly, that vow was broken the day you walked in. And the next free moment I had, I found myself slinking into the quiet of my office, fisting my cock to the thought of you.”

Your face flushes and his does too. His honesty is almost too bold, but it’s also endearing. He’s usually so eloquent when he speaks of worshiping you and his desires surrounding you, so deliberate in his reverence, and yet here he is, slipping, revealing something cruder—but deeply real.

He lowers his head a little more, his chin resting gently against your thighs. His hands inch slowly upward beneath your dress. His eyes, still soft and warm, stay fixed on yours, a faint blush lingering on his cheeks. “So I broke that vow long before we ever touched,” he confesses, and even though his voice is quiet, there’s no shame in it, just truth.

The soft brush of his fingers against your bare thighs makes you tremble, a warmth spreading through you—the same familiar, comforting feeling that being with him always stirs.

Your fingers comb back his hair before your hand comes to rest gently against his cheek. He nestles into your touch, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm.

“You’re my safe person, you know that?”

You shake your head slowly, feeling the prickle of tears once more. Except this time, they’re not from sadness. The idea that he sees you as someone safe swells inside you, tender and overwhelming.

Even fully upright on his knees, he nearly meets your height as you sit. His hands slip from beneath the hem of your dress, settling instead on your arms. The need to touch you—stay touching you—is palpable. He craves that physical connection, and you feel it in every gentle motion. It warms you, the closeness, the way he touches you so delicately, as if you’re something precious, as if he wants to cradle you.

“I want to be your safe space,” he says softly, “someone you can just be yourself with.”

He doesn’t need to say more, you already know what he means. There’s no judgment in him. He’s ready to take you exactly as you are, without expectations, without conditions. To love you fully, even the parts of yourself you try to hide. The parts that never seem to stay hidden when he’s near.

His words are enough to ease some of the tension, his thumbs gently rubbing along your arms while his eyes remain soft and focused solely on you.

You think back to everything you’ve already done together—to every moment you’ve shared, to how willingly he surrendered control to you, because he trusts you, implicitly.

It’s always where you’re the hardest on yourself—especially after a session—worrying that you’ve pushed too far, taken too much, maybe even taken advantage, but you always check in, you always ask, and he always says the same thing: green.

“Tell me what it is you need,” he asks, tilting his head slightly. His focus is unwavering, his gaze filled with that soft, steady reminder that he’s ready and willing to give you the world.

“You…” You whisper it, like a confession. Like a secret you’re ashamed to say aloud, as though wanting him is something you should feel guilty for.

“Then you have me, baby. You have me.” He’s quick to reassure you, his hand reaching for yours, guiding it to his chest and placing it over his heart. “You’ve long had me. You have my heart.”

Your fingers brush against the black shirt, the way it clings to his chest, letting you feel the strength of his muscles and the soft rhythm of his heartbeat.

“My body,” he murmurs, dipping his head to press a kiss against the inside of your arm.

“My mind.”

Between each word, another kiss follows—soft and slow—until he leans in and presses one to your exposed collarbone.

“My soul.”

It’s soft—faint—but you hear it, and your hand rises to cradle the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair, pressing gently against his scalp in a tender embrace. Goosebumps prickle across your skin from the heat of his breath against your neck.

“You have all of me. Now let me have all of you.” He says it like he always does, like he wants to worship you, like you’re the only thing that’s ever filled his thoughts, and while guilt still tugs at you—this idea that you’ve somehow strayed him from his path—he doesn’t see it that way. He wants to honor you. Not as a replacement for God, but alongside Him. There’s enough room in his heart for both, but especially for you.

He makes that clear as his fingers brush the buttons of your dress, slowly slipping each one free, one by one, his mouth trailing kisses down between the soft panels of fabric against your chest, whispering soft words of worship.

You’re in his office—his sanctity—and he wants nothing more than to adore you right here.

Noah would lay you out on the altar in the main chapel if you let him, but he’ll settle for this, for here and now, tucked away in his private space, for just the two of you, to remind you of how deeply he adores you, how much he wants you, how much he wants you to let him in, and with every kiss, you feel yourself softening more.

Every brush of his lips against your stomach, every press of his hands against your love handles. He misses nothing. He touches every inch like it matters. Like you matter. It’s not sexual, it’s sensual—it’s devotion.

You’re baring yourself to him, not just your body, but your vulnerability, and he receives it gently, reverently, helping you shed the armour you’ve kept on for too long with a quiet, unwavering reminder: you’re safe with him.

He wants to show you he loves you, because he already does.

[dross-the-fish]

"Do you know the story of Genesis, Adam?" Dr. Watson asked as he swept away the fallen locks of hair from the floor around the creature's too small chair.

The being nodded, "I know it well...though perhaps not as you should understand it."

"No? As I understand it God created Adam and then Eve and gave them dominion over the Earth," Watson was not an overly religious man but he made it his habit to attend church once in a while and on rare occasions he would even absorb the tired sermons recited with comfortable hollowness by a priest who knew them to the letter but had never in his half-a-lifetime in the pulpit stopped to consider their meaning.

"Oh no, Doctor Watson. That is not how it goes," rasped the newly christened Adam. He propped his elbows on his bent knees and brought his joined fists to rest under his chin, unblinking yellow eyes staring hard at the old man before him, "Not at all. The version of events as I have come to understand them are thus: God created Adam, despised and cursed him, and when Adam fell he dragged God by his wax wings into Hell with him."

Rage, such potent rage and depth of despair the likes of which Watson had never seen on a human face twisted the aberrant features before him and the old man halted.

"That is blasphemous," he whispered.

Adam leapt from the chair, toppling it and seized Watson's hand laying it against the Y shaped stitching on his chest where a heart beat so sluggishly it was nearly imperceptible, "Touch and feel then Doctor! I am blasphemy! I am heresy! Mark thou that I am the very proof that man should not think himself God lest he damn all he touches! If thy heart is too craven to accept the burden of a Godless Adam then revoke my name and cast me back into the wilderness. I shall return to haunting my barren rock and trouble man no more nor it trouble me!"

Summoning whatever steely nerve he could find Watson shook his head and set his shoulders, "No! No, you are here dash it all! I have taken responsibility for you and I say are a man, Adam. Once we make land back in England I'm going to find you a tailor and a tutor. You will be not merely a man! I give you my word that I will make you as fine a gentleman as ever there has been."

The creature took stock of himself, eight feet tall, sewn of animal and human corpses and stubbornly alive after one hundred and thirty years. Then he looked to the man before him, significantly shorter, rotund and bearing every sign of mortality from the wrinkled face sporting a broken nose never property set to thin greying hair, combed in a vain attempt to hide a receding hairline. But it was Watson's eyes that struck Adam, a deep blue that seemed to defy the weight of age, brimming with vitality and such boyish earnestness that Adam could not help but feel a little humbled under their gaze.

"If that is what thou would make of me then so shall I be. A civil man of culture and education."

Watson dared to reach out to pat him, "Precisely! Civil, cultured, educated and modern! Your peculiarity of speech, for one, will need to be corrected. Once I finish giving you a physical examination that will be the first thing to teach you."

Adam did not protest as Watson pulled out a roll of measuring tape and recorded the circumference of his chest. Watching the doctor work in his confident and diligent manner Adam couldn't help but allow himself to feel the barest spark of excitement. Perhaps Watson would finish the work Victor had started. Perhaps with fine clothing, good manners and an education to go with his new name Adam could finally be the one thing he had craved for all of his life.

Human.

[amusingmorley]

Here’s a piece of choral music that I think would be performed at Thomas Lawrence’s funeral (and there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house):

Take him, earth, for cherishing by English composer Herbert Howells. (Written for the 1st anniversary of the death of JFK).

Take him, earth, for cherishing,

to thy tender breast receive him.

Body of a man I bring thee,

noble even in its ruin.

Once was this a spirit’s dwelling,

by the breath of God created.

High the heart that here was beating,

Christ the prince of all its living.

Guard him well, the dead I give thee,

not unmindful of his creature

shall he ask it: he who made it

symbol of his mystery.

Comes the hour God hath appointed

to fulfil the hope of men,

then must thou, in very fashion,

what I give, return again.

Not though ancient time decaying

wear away these bones to sand,

ashes that a man might measure

in the hollow of his hand: Not though wandering winds and idle,

drifting through the empty sky,

scatter dust was nerve and sinew,

is it given to man to die.

Once again the shining road

leads to ample Paradise;

open are the woods again,

that the serpent lost for men

Take, O take him, mighty leader,

take again thy servant’s soul.

Grave his name, and pour the fragrant

balm upon the icy stone.

[astro-stars]

Chapter 2: gasp pretty boys? 

They arrived at the Hall of Mirrors, the name alone carrying an almost ominous weight. The towering doors groaned open with a dramatic creak, revealing the room beyond—a space dominated by gleaming mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling. Their reflective surfaces distorted the scene, amplifying the chaos inside. 

The room was alive with energy, a cacophony of voices and movements that struck her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened as her gaze swept over the crowd of students—all male. Anxiety clawed at her as she struggled to take it all in. 

Then her eyes locked onto the six figures at the front of the room. 

Her breath caught. Five of them stood tall and poised, exuding an air of authority even among the crowd. She recognized them instantly—the dorm leaders she had spent countless hours watching on her screen. Their presence was magnetic, each one commanding attention despite the uniformity of their robes. 

And then there was the floating tablet. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what it was: Idia’s ever-present iPad, hovering like a ghostly sentinel beside the line of dorm leaders. The absurdity of it almost drew a laugh to her lips, but the gravity of the moment quickly snuffed it out. 

This was the entrance ceremony. That entrance ceremony, the one she’d seen a hundred times before—but never from this angle. 

The leaders’ expressions varied as their eyes landed on her. Surprise flickered across some faces, irritation on others, and at least one remained utterly impassive. Their vividness, the way they breathed and moved, was overwhelming. It shattered the boundary between fiction and reality, and her knees threatened to give way beneath her. 

This wasn’t a game anymore.  

"Whoa, he looks like a chick." 

"Probably gonna be Pomefiore." 

"Have you seen Heartslabyul?" 

The question rippled through the crowd like a quiet wave, carried on whispers and sharp glances. Yuu’s cheeks burned under their collective scrutiny. The weight of so many eyes on her made her chest tighten, and she fought the urge to shrink into herself. She lingered in the shadows of the grand archway, her gaze fixed on the cold stone floor as the murmurs swelled around her. 

Crowley, either oblivious to her discomfort or unconcerned by it, strode confidently toward a mirror that stood apart from the rest. It was massive, nearly monolithic, with a frame of twisted, knotted vines that seemed almost alive, curling and clawing as though ready to ensnare anyone who dared approach. The glass within was dark and impenetrable, an abyss that offered no reflection. He turned and gestured for her to follow, his golden eyes gleaming with an unreadable intent. 

Her heart pounded as she took a tentative step forward. The weight of the room shifted, the oppressive buzz of whispers abruptly snuffed out like a candle. An eerie silence fell over the hall, broken only by the echo of her hesitant footsteps and her own ragged breathing. 

The mask within the mirror stirred. Its hollow eye sockets tilted toward her, as if it were a living thing assessing her every movement. The vines around the frame quivered, their motion subtle but unmistakable. 

“State thy name,” the mask intoned, its deep, resonant voice filling the hall. The sound reverberated through her chest, commanding and inescapable. 

Yuu froze, her mind racing. This moment, this phrase—she had read it, heard it in the game so many times before. But now, in this place, with so many unfamiliar eyes on her, the words felt heavy, alien, and sharp. She looked to Crowley, who gave a small nod, urging her forward. 

“Yuu,” she whispered. The sound was barely audible, a fragile thing swallowed by the weight of the silence. It felt insignificant, painfully out of place against the grandeur surrounding her. 

The mask tilted slightly, as if considering her answer. The vines around its frame tensed, their motion unnervingly lifelike. “The state of thy soul is… unknown,” it echoed, the words rolling through the hall like a distant thunderclap. 

Yuu’s heart sank, the phrase striking her with an unexpected finality. Around her, the atmosphere shifted. The dorm leaders’ gazes sharpened, and the murmurs among the students returned, louder now, tinged with curiosity and speculation. She could feel their questions pressing against her like a physical weight. 

In the game, she had always known what came next, the script unfolding predictably before her. But here, with those hollow eyes staring through her, the story felt foreign. 

[starboycosmic]

"Solstice night and fading flame, magick in the Old Ones name. Stars alight are born anew, faithful spirits, good and true. Lift thy voice and sing them praise, for lengthened nights and shortened days. What shall fall, shall rise again, What's without, is what's within. Gleeful chorus in the gale, call the tempest, storm and hail. Thunder sound across the earth, speak your magick of rebirth. Light the heavens, fill our eyes, fill our souls and hear our cries. Return the wicked to their place, Restore our world with good and grace. In the voided hollow heart, make all evil now depart. And in the darkest depth of time, Come again to bring your shine. From sun's set, until the dawn, Keep our power ever strong, To stand against the tides of rage, every witch and every sage. What's within, is what's without as the circle whirls about. Forces large and forces small, one by one, and one in all, Gather now, enchant my spell, Serve my will and serve it well. Through the world, unleash thy power, Here upon this midnight hour. What I chant, remains with thee, As I say, so mote it be." 🌌

~ Midsummer Eve Incantation | Starboy

[yorha-number-2-type-e]

Closure?

Oh hark! What light through yonder meltdown breaks? It is the east—and Ichihime’s fake.

Thou say’st, “I take it not to heart”—yet lo! Thy trembling hand doth type thee to and fro. Three scrolls of text, like monologues of woe, All just to say, “You’re wrong”—we know, we know.

Thy canon claim? A castle built on sand. No plot, no plan, no gently guided hand. But duct-taped dreams and flashbacks dressed as fate, Like Kubo scrawled it in a lunch break state.

Orihime, though sweet, was left adrift, A goddess trapped in fridge-like story rift. And Ichigo, once fire and rage and flame, Now stares through life like joy forgot his name.

So rail and wail, dear bard of canon’s court, But know thy kingdom’s thin—and frail of sort. For though the ending’s etched in ink-stained lore, Its hollow echoes reach the soul no more.

And if thou think’st a tag should bar dissent, I bid thee block—and spare thy discontent. 😁

[pupsmailbox]

SURREALISM ID PACK

NAMES︰ abigail. abyss. abyssa. achey. adam. adelaide. adeline. agatha. agnes. albert. alexander. alfred. alice. amelia. angel. annabelle. apparition. arch. archie. arthur. atticus. augustus. beatrice. beetle. benedict. benjamin. birdee. bliss. bubbles. bug. bugby. buggy. bunny. cain. calvin. cardee. catherine. cecilia. celeste. chaos. charlotte. chev. chevrotain. chimera. clara. clementine. cloudi. cloudy. compass. crow. dahlia. daisy. daphne. daze. decay. deja. delusion. dorothy. doubt. dove. dream. dreamy. drift. echo. eleanor. elizabeth. emily. enigma. erebos. erebus. ernest. error. eve. evelyn. exite. eyes. fading. fady. faid. faint. fawnly. felicity. felix. fish. fisshu. flaw. flower. forky. foxy. frog. froge. froggy. frost. frosty. ghost. ghosty. gideon. gin. ginnungagap. glitch. glitchy. graham. gray. grey. hare. harriet. hattie. haunt. haven. hazel. heartbeat. heartbreak. henry. hoarfrost. hollow. howl. hugo. icey. illusielle. illusion. imogen. infinesse. infinitie. ink. iris. ivy. jane. juliet. juno. jupiter. kai. key. khali. khaos. khora. kit. larkling. lichen. lichy. lilith. lily. liminal. link. locket. love. lucy. lulu. luminal. luna. mabel. margaret. mars. matilda. matrix. meadow. meddy. mercury. mirage. mirror. misty. mo. mold. moon. moss. mossy. moth. mothy. mug. murmur. mush. mushy. mysterie. nada. nameless. nemo. neptune. night. nightmare. nihil. nobody. noir. noire. noiresse. noirette. nostal. nostalgesse. nostalgette. nothing. nox. null. nyx. oblivionne. obscuritie. obsidian. oceana. ocina. ocula. odditie. oddling. olive. oliver. olivia. ombra. orion. pale. penelope. phantom. phoebe. phone. pin. pluto. poppy. portal. post. pulse. pup. rain. rainy. rippel. ripple. rose. salem. saturn. scythe. scythette. serene. shadow. shivver. shroom. shrum. silver. sky. smile. snak. snake. snek. snowy. socket. sombra. sophie. sparrow. spook. spookie. spooks. spooky. spoon. spotty. sprite. stacy. static. stitch. storm. stormy. stream. sugar. sunny. teeth. telle. theodore. thread. thunder. thunderly. ticket. tide. tooth. tripp. twilight. unknown. vac. vacancy. vacuify. vazio. vega. velvet. venus. victoria. vinyl. vivian. void. vortex. walter. worry. wraith. wren. yearn. zero. zeta.

PRONOUNS︰ ?/?. ?t/?t. [redacted]/[redacted]. _/_. abandon/abandon. ap/ap. backroom/backroom. being/being. bizarre/bizarre. blank/blank. blur/blur. clock/clock. cloud/cloud. cold/cold. creature/creature. creep/creep. dark/dark. daze/daze. deja/vu. deranged/deranged. dim/dim. dream/dream. echo/echo. eerie/eerie. em/empty. empty/empt. empty/empty. end/end. entity/entity. error/error. eye/eye. familiar/familiar. film/film. flower/flower. fog/fog. forget/forget. fru/fru. ghost/ghost. glitch/glitch. h?/h?m. hollow/hollow. hx/hxm. hy/hym. illusion/illusion. ina/ina. infinite/infinite. ink/ink. jpeg/jpeg. key/key. lim/lim. lim/liminal. liminal/liminal. lost/lost. lurk/lurk. mist/mist. moss/moss. mush/mush. mush/shroom. mystery/mystery. night/night. no/exit. no/non. noir/noir. nos/nos. nostal/nostalgia. nostalgia/nostalgia. not/nothing. nothing/nothing. nox/nox. null/null. obsidian/obsidian. odd/odd. one/one. penumbra/penumbra. phantom/phantom. pitch/pitch. pop/pop. rem/ember. scythe/scythe. sh?/h?r. sha/shadow. shade/shade. shadow/shadow. shrooms/shroom. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. silhouette/silhouette. space/space. spiral/spiral. stat/stat. stat/static/static. static/static. stone/stone. strange/strange. surreal/surreal. tele/vision. th?y/th?m. that/thatthing. thing/thing. thon/thon. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. tooth/tooth. tv/tv. twilight/twilight. un/canny. uncanny/uncanny. vae/vaer. vast/vast. venta/venta. voi/voi. voi/void. void/void. vor/tex. watcher/watcher. weird/weird. where?/where?. winde/winde. x/x. yellow/yellow. ⚫. ⚫️. ❓. ❔. 🌀. 🌑. 🌚. 🌫️. 🏚️. 👁️. 💭. 🕳️. 🗝️. 🚪.

SIMILAR LISTS I HAVE︰ 1 2 3 4 ⭐

[tribalauthor]

CHAPTER 3 •AGREEMENT• (2.6K)

previous chapter

*18 months ago*

Phillip and Julliet are situated in Prime & Provisions restaurant. The atmosphere of this place takes you back to the glamour of 1920s mixed with a little bit of modern design. This type of place is unfamiliar for a woman like Julliet who was born in Roseland, not the richest neighbourhoods in Chicago.

Her parents are immigrants from Italy but sadly they were brutally killed by a drugged driver on the road, leaving Juliet an orphan at the age of 26. Three years passed so quickly.

She has no siblings, just her best friend from college - Diana. They graduated in Dancing at the Columbia University. Diana made a name for herself. She is one of the most famous professional dancers right now. Many people look up to her.

For Juliet, things didn't work out like this. She didn't necessarily wanted any fame or that kind of stuff. She wanted to create a dance school where she teaches kids and people of all ages how to dance the stress away.

To achieve that, she needed money, so she started giving dance classes in public schools but the income from that wasn't enough. That's why she started a second job as a bartender.

That's how she's been living for the past years, work and work. Now, she has a bit money collected but there is so much stuff she has to do in order to build that school.

One day, at her way to grab her morning coffee after the night job before the morning job, Juliet met a man who she had no idea would end up as her boyfriend - the infamous Phillip Brooks, who owns Inenergy - a company that is an operator of sustainable energy solutions.

Of course, she had no idea that this is actually him. Juliet isn't familiar of rich men, CEOs and so on. He is also significantly older than her bit that morning in the cafè sparks flew between them.

They have been seeing each other for a while and now they are in that glamourous restaurant. Phillip always took Juliet to nice places for their dates but this one, especially, is going to be really special.

While eating the extra delicious steak, the elder man started speaking.

"I like spending time with you, Juliet." he remarked.

"Thank you. I like spending time with you, too." she replied, flashing her beautiful smile at him which drives him crazy.

There is an obvious mutual physical attraction between them. On the one side, there is the beautiful brunette Juliet and on the other, the gracefully aging Phillip who visibly has plenty of charm left.

The nicely styled dark brown hair, gray-white beard, beautiful green eyes and pretty smile. He looked like a dream.

His maturity adds even more to the level of attraction. Juliet has been dealing with immature men all her life and suddenly, she meets a man like Phil and she is taken aback.

"I know my name is not Romeo but for I ne'er saw true beauty till this night." he, of course, quoted one of the most famous lines in Romeo and Juliet.

She laughed at his creativity.

"I am serious, Juliet. You are an amazing woman and I am a selfish man who wants you for himself only." he continued with the confessions.

Juliet's stomach flipped in the best way possible because Phil is just speaking so beautifully, obviously with sincerity.

"I know we have quite an age difference and I look like I am your uncle...sort of but would you be my girlfriend?" Juliet smiled at his comment of self irony and also just the way he is proposing her as a whole.

She thinks he is very cute especially for a man of his age and status.

"Lest that thy love prove likewise variable." she decided to reply with one of Juliet's most famous lines.

There was a big grin on Phillip's face. It's like sun just rised in the night. He really likes Juliet, there might be something even more than liking. She makes a man like him feel happy, forget about his work problems and loneliness.

And he makes her forget about the sadness and hollow in her life.

The same night Juliet received her first present as Phil's girlfriend - a big Cartier necklace that complimented the no sleeve black tight dress she was wearing.

He also made sure, of course, to drive her home safely with his black Lamborghini. They are in front of the apartment complex which didn't look very modern or new but inside, Juliet made sure it looks cozy and neat.

Phillip didn't have any interest in checking out but he wanted something else. After the sweet kiss of goodbye that turned into a little makeout session, he said:

"Pack your things, tomorrow you come to live with me."

"What? Isn't it too early?" she was taken aback.

"Do I look like a man who has all the time in the world, Juliet? Plus, I want to make your life the most comfortable it will ever be, so please." he grabbed her hand slowly and kissed it.

Then they started kissing again.

The same night was a way more different for the Reigns family. The 3-member family was gathered for dinner and it's been a couple of days since Roman caught his wife, Willow, cheating on him. They decided to tell Josephine the news.

It was all silent and the spouses were exchanging some looks, trying to decide who to start the conversation.

Roman was certain that it won't be him because he wasn't the one that cheated. Despite everything he stayed loyal to his family. Yes, he knew Willow isn't the love of his life but she gave birth to his daughter, after all, so there was a major respect in him.

Settlement too. He didn't care about finding his true love because he had a family to provide for. Roman just made sure to work hard and earn enough money, so he can take care of his daughter and his wife who had to sacrifice her education and youth to give birth.

Willow is an attractive woman - brown skin, honey blonde curly hair, hazel eyes and body like a goddess. Sixteen years ago Roman went head over heels for her, she liked him as well and one night they hooked up at the campus party.

They had no idea, however, that this hookup would result a child. Not only that, it was too late for abortion, so Willow had to stop her education. She, as Roman, wanted to become a lawyer, but only one of them succeeded in achieving their dream.

When all of this happened was sadly, when they realized what they had was pure mutual attraction and nothing more. People say you can't be with a person if you are not slightly physically attracted to them but you also can't be with a person with whom you are solely physically attracted to.

However, they had to try and be tolerable towards each other since they are about to raise a kid together.

Sixteen years later, Willow continues being a very hot chick. Men still go crazy over her whenever she goes out, with or without her daughter. She met her new man at the literature club she is attending.

He is a literature professor in University of Nevada. The way he was talking so smartly and the way he was sharing her viewpoints about the books made her fall for him. He wasn't more beautiful than Roman, but still had charm.

Enough to go against her morals and cheat on her husband for months.

"Your mother wants to tell you something." Roman spoke as he looked at his beautiful daughter. He loves her to death.

This is the most precious human being for him and he is trying his best to be a good father. Looking at Josephine, she resembles him a lot but she has her mother's smile.

A smile that cannot be seen right now because the girl was sensing something is not okay.

"Am I gonna have a little brother? What's going on?" she asked, seeing her parents don't spill the beans although her father is a lawyer.

"No." Willow replied. During those years they've been thinking about a second kid but many people told them it's not gonna solve their problem. "Me and your father are going to part ways."

"What? Why?" Josephine's forehead wrinkled because she didn't see this coming, for sure.

"Because she met the love of her life." Roman replied and Willow looked at him, mad because of his choice of words.

"What do you mean 'love of your life', mom? Isn't father enough for you?" Josephine started screaming. Sixteen is a fragile age - puberty, hormones, boyfriends, friend break-ups, and now adding a divorce.

While Willow was searching for words to say, her daughter got off the table to go to her room.

"Great choice of words." she looked at her husband with hatred.

"Did I lie, though? She deserves an explanation." Roman crossed his arms. "She is not a little kid anymore and what I hope for is that her mental health doesn't get damaged."

So Roman made sure to find the best therapist for his little girl.

*present*

All the trauma Juliet and Roman have been through is being temporarily erased when they were having sex.

They are in the same room again, in a lap dance position, thematic for their situation - a stripper and a client but with benefits.

Client with benefits - another new term for a relationship between a man and a woman.

Both of them craved for each other and honestly, Monique didn't expect Roman to come back whatsoever and even that soon after their first intercourse.

On the other hand, Roman didn't expect Bambi to agree to another private session while according to her words, it's not allowed.

The horny people were having unprotected sex again since they shouldn't leave any trace.

Once they finished, moaning and groaning from the pleasure, they fell on the bed facing each other, normalizing their breaths.

It's insane how after the animalistic sex they have, you can spot intimate moments, too, like they've been together for some time but they are not.

It's like an addiction. Some people cope with alcohol, some with cigarettes, others with drugs but Roman and Monique cope with sex.

Only with each other.

"Sometimes I wonder if you really have back and knees or that's an optical illusion." Roman implied the flexibility of his...his...what is Monique to him?

Friend with benefits? No, they are not friends. They know nothing about each other except their names and jobs, yet he doesn't know her real name...even less her birth name.

Acquaintance? Not exactly. Acquaintances know basic information about each other with tiny bit of details but have no idea how they look like without their clothes on.

Somebody should invent a word for knowing only a person's body but not the soul. The word would describe them perfectly.

Monique smirked faintly at his remark.

"My job requires it, yes."

"And if your boss finds out about this..."

"I am probably gonna be fired but who cares?" Roman was surprised at her nonchalance.

"Well, probably your wallet." the lawyer replied.

"I am gonna find another bar, not a big deal. We are in Sin City after all." Monique shrugged and Roman downturned his mouth, agreeing with her.

"But you gotta tell me where your new job is." he said and the stripper laughed out loud.

"Of course. Will do."

"We need a contact information for that, though." oh, so he is searching for her contacts now. He is right but Monique gave him a suspicious look. "I'm not gonna bother you...unless you ask me to."

Monique chuckled at his explanation. She eventually got up, separating her private parts from his. Maybe both of them haven't realized they were still body in body until now when the dancer got up.

She went to the nightstand, looking for a paper and pen to write down her number. However, she bent in order to grab the needed stuff not realizing her butt is facing Roman.

He licked his lips, enjoying the view of Bambi's perfectly shaped behind. The impulsive thoughts were telling him to go and fuck her again, the conscious ones, however, told him to calm his dick down, indicating there might be something wrong with him.

Once she wrote her number on the little piece of paper, Monique turned around and was surprised Roman still isn't dressed, his eyes were sparkling.

"If show was a person, it would be you, goddamn." he groaned, biting his lip. "You are such a trouble."

"Trouble? What did I even do?" Bambi played dumb, getting closer to him, giving the little list. "Business only, okay?" she specified again the reason she is giving her contact information to him.

"Business only. I can even prepare a contract if you want and next time I am gonna bring it." Monique laughed at how funny this guy actually is. Very funny for a lawyer. "Or leave me an email and I can send it to ya."

"No need of contracts." she replied and caressed his muscular shoulders. Monique loves Roman's body - it is way too perfect, some people may say it's a bit too muscular but that's how she likes her man.

Phil also had quite the muscular body. Similarly to him, Roman is also tatted but just one big tattoo which almost resembled an armor. Monique thought it's cool.

The lawyer noticed a tattoo the last time on Bambi's underboob but it was written in cursive and he couldn't read it quite well. Now that she is sitting in front of him, almost on his lap, he took a better look at it - La vita é bella or translated in English 'Life is beautiful'.

"Are you Italian?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Yes." judging by his look, she knew he saw but how does he know it's Italian. "How'd you know it's Italian?"

"My mother is from there." Monique was surprised that they share ethnicity...or at least half. Mother is Italian but father has to be and islander or something because that man is extra huge. However, Monique didn't want to ask any questions.

"I could never guess." she confessed and then Roman placed a kiss on her beautiful yet small and elegant tattoo.

Monique liked it. She could do this for another few hours, it's a beautiful moment but she has to ruin it.

"It's time for me to get back to the stage." and she did it, she ruined everything or at least she thought she did.

"What if I pull out more money and you stay here?" the loyal client asked as he started kissing Monique's soft skin around her breasts and stomach.

She was dazed by the way this man wants her.

Am I that good or is he as lonely?, she started asking herself. When you see how this man looks, walks and talks, nobody could guess he is lonely. But another lesson she learned is that men who come here are in fact, lonely - not necessarily in a physical way, but more like mentally.

Thus, her assumptions about him seem to get more and more prone to be the truth but her question is "What or who made him feel like that?"

"Okay, Mr. Attorney, we have a deal." Monique giggled and he pulled her on him, throwing themselves in the bed but then he switched positions, making sure he is at the top this time.

next chapter

[noctivagant-corvid]

EPITASIS

1. In my dreams, you’re the dying man. In my dreams, you’re the martyr. In my dreams, you, always. Open your books to beg.

2. Here’s the lake on fire. O Lord, the lake on fire! O Lord, the girl at my neck, at my waistband, at my heart, biting. The lake’s on fire. Why aren’t you looking? 

3. Our father who art buried in the yard, hallowed be thy name. Give to us salvation, salivating, wolves at the door. Our daughter who art dead in her mother’s arms, give to us our daily bread.

4. Stop looking at me. I’ll do anything for you, stop looking at me. You’re splitting my chest open and biting my heart stop looking at me. Look at the lake. The lake’s on fire. Look. Look!

5. Stormline streamlined to us, foggy lungs and the magnification of tragedy. Boy tells me we aren’t dead yet. I ask him to check my pulse again. Our father who art in heaven, I know I’m not one of yours, but can you save us anyways?

666. If you keep looking at me I’m going to think you really love me. Turn away. Please. Please, darling. 

7. In my dreams, you clasp my hands together, teach me the words. In my dreams, I get to try again. Our father, who art in heaven, hollowed be our hearts. Be still, cruel thing. 

8. I love you. I love you, kill me. The lake’s on fire. The lake is still on fire. There’s a bird in your hand and you’ve crushed it. There’s a heart in your hand and you’ve crushed it. Girl at my neck, O Lord! O Lord!

9.  Our sister who art in the ground, I’ll bury you with your keys between your knuckles.

10. This isn’t our prayer. I’m not your meal. Chaverai N’varech, anyways. You throw a lot of punches but you don’t swing that way. What else is new?

11.  Both of these stories end in heartbreak.

YOU CAN ALSO FIIND THIS POEM ON MY ALLPOETRY!

PLEASE REBLOG, BUT DO NOT REPOST.

[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.

[princessmacabre]

”Because you were made to be mine.” - ALCHEMICAL HEARTS, Hollow is Thy Name

[the-gay-rat]

Riordan-verse Prophecies

Percy Jackson and the Olympians

You shall go west, and face the god who has turned, You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned, You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend, And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.

You shall sail the iron ship with warriors of bone, You shall find what you seek and make it your own, But despair for your life entombed within stone, And fail without friends, to fly home alone

  Five shall go west to the goddess in chains, One shall be lost in the land without rain, The bane of Olympus shows the trail, Campers and Hunters combined prevail, The Titan’s curse must one withstand, And one shall perish by parent’s hand. 

You shall delve in the darkness of the endless maze, The dead, the traitor, and the lost one raise. You shall rise or fall by the ghost king's hand, The child of Athena's final stand. Destroy with a hero's final breath, And lose a love to worse than death.

A half-blood of the eldest gods shall reach sixteen against all odds and see the world in endless sleep, The hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap, a single choice will end his days, Olympus to preserve or raise.

The heroes of Olympus 

seven heroes shall answer the call to storm or fire the world must fall an oath to keep with final breath as foes bear arms to the doors of death

Child of lightning beware the earth the giants revenge the seven shall birth forge and dove shall break the cage and death unleashed through Heras rage 

 to the north beyond the gods lies the legions crown falling from the ice the son of Neptune shall drown

wisdoms daughter walks alone the mark of Athena burns through Rome twins snuff out the angels breath who holds the key to endless death the giants bane stands gold and pale won through the pain from a woven jail 

Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard 

Wrongly chosen, Wrongly slain, A hero Valhalla cannot contain. Nine days hence the sun must go east, Ere sword of summer unbinds the beast. 

The Trials of Apollo

Caves of blue. 

…Westward, burning.

Pages turning.

…Indiana.

Happiness approaches.

There was once a god named Apollo, Who plunged in a cave blue and hollow, Upon a three seater, the bronze fire-eater, Was forced death and madness to swallow 

The words that memory wrought are set to fire, Ere new moon rises o’er the devils mount, Till bodies fill the Tibet beyond count.

Yet southward must the sun now trace its course, Through the mazes dark to land of scorching death, to find the master of the swift white horse and wrest from the crossword speaker’s breath.

To westward must the lester go; Demeter’s daughter finds her ancient roots. The Cloven guide alone the way does he know, To walk the path in Thine own enemies boots

When three are known and Tiber reached alive, tis only then Apollo starts to jive 

Bronze upon gold

East meets west

Legions are redeemed 

Light the depths 

One against many

Never spirit defeat 

Ancient words spoken 

Shaking old foundations 

Destroy the tyrant 

Aid the winged 

Under golden hills

Great stallion’s foal 

Turn red tides 

Harken the trumpets

Enter strangers home 

Regain lost glory

Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by (Bellona’s Daughter)

A wildcat near the spinning lights. The tomb of Tarquin with horses bright. 

To open doors two-fifty-four 

O son of Zeus the final challenge face, The tow’r of Nero two alone ascend, dislodge the beast that hast usurped thy place, The son of Hades, cavern runner’s friend, Must show the secret way unto the throne. On Nero’s own your lives now depend. A dare reveals the path that was unknown, And bears destruction; Lion, snake-entwined or else the princeps never be o’erthrown 

Apollos flesh and blood shall soon be mine, Alone he must descend into the dark, The sibyl never again to see his sign, Lest wrestle with me till se his final spark, The god dissolves, leaving not a mark 

Apollo must fall, but Apollo must rise again 

The Sun and the Star

Go forth and find the one who calls out your name, who suffers and despairs for refusing to remain; there leave some of equal value behind, or your body and soul no one will ever find.

(correct me if i got any wrong)

[amara-gaelthorne]

The Practical Witch’s Code of Botanical Respect

A creed for witches who respect their tools, their craft, and their damn thyme.

1. Thou Shalt Know Thy Herb Before Thou Waveth Thy Wand

If you don’t know if it’s culinary, medicinal, or mildly toxic when steeped—put it back. Research it. Ask a crone.

2. Store Thy Herbs in Glass, Not in Plastic Graveyards

Sunlight kills potency. Moisture ruins everything. Treat your herbs like spell components, not garage sale potpourri.

3. Color Fades, Scent Dies—That’s Not a Metaphor, It’s Shelf Life

If your basil’s grey and your mint smells like cardboard, stop lying to yourself. That’s not sacred. That’s compost.

4. Use With Purpose, Not Performance

Sprinkling sage everywhere without intent is no better than throwing glitter in the wind and calling it stardust. The plant gave its life—don’t waste it on theatrics.

5. Do Not Blame Capitalism for Your Lack of Airtight Containers

If your herbs are stale, look to your jar, not the economy.

6. Grow Thy Own When Possible, but Know Thy Limits

You live in a cold basement with one window and a radiator? Maybe skip the lemon balm. Choose wisely. Be realistic.

7. Dead Plants Are Not a Personality Trait

Your black-thumbed history is not an aesthetic. If you kill something, learn from it. Don’t make it a spiritual scapegoat.

8. Do Not Waste What Another Could Heal

If your herbs are beyond saving, give them to the Earth or the fire with respect—not some hollow ritual about “letting go of old energies” when you’re just clearing out expired stock.

9. If You Can't Name the Plant, You Can't Use It in a Spell

"I think it's like, yarrow or oregano or something?" No. Stop. You are not an herbalist. You are a liability.

10. The Craft is Built on Wisdom, Not Excuses

You are allowed to fail. You are not allowed to romanticize the failure to avoid accountability. There is no enlightenment in willful ignorance.