#forgotten cellar

[almostlookedhuman]

[starbuck]

every time i check the black sails tag it’s just people saying things that are technically true, but that’s as far as they take it?? What about the ritual sacrifice? the symbolic goat deaths? the murder rope?? zombie house???? we used to have fun on here…

[amazingmrcinema007]

October watches so far. Had a bit of a bumpy start but so far it's going good.

Phoenix Forgotten: ★★.5/5 Stars

Haunts: ★★/5 Stars

All Hallows' Eve: ★.5/5 Stars

The Banshee Chapter: ★★★.5/5Stars

The Call of Cthulhu: ★★★★/5 Stars

The Cellar (rewatched w/ director's cut): ★★★/5 Stars

No One Will Save You: ★★★/5 Stars

Chime: ★★★.5/5 Stars

Transformers One: ★★★★/5 Stars

Terrifier 2: ★★★★/5 Stars

Slaughter Day: ★★★.5/5 Stars

The Rift: ★★★/5 Stars

[chaoticdesertdweller]

Radford, Virginia

📸 Lindsey Barszcz

[quarterlifekitty]

Something something bear!hybrid!Price something something breeding you full of his cubs…please?

I’m gonna do some RECYCLING here

Imagine Grizzly!Price introducing himself on the day you move in. And he’s never seen a bear like you before. You’re a bear for certain— the fluffy ears and tail, the scent of fruit and honey, it pulls out instincts he’d long forgotten about.

But you’re so little. And you have that funny little ring of fur around your neck. And that long tongue. And you can’t stand the cold. No hibernation instincts whatsoever.

A sun bear.

And he feels this tremendous itch when winter comes. He always feels this sort of dull ache— sleep is calling him. But he’s the kind of man who can’t help but keep an eye on everything going on around him. And you’re not prepping at all. Where are your crates of groceries? Your house has a cellar for God’s sake and he hasn’t seen anything go in there. Each time he sees you through your window, just enjoying yourself and ambling around the house— it’s like dry kindling is being tossed onto the embers around his heart.

He always felt this hard drive to nurture, to provide, to nest— he can’t stand seeing you so vulnerable and unprepared. And you’re so small! What’s going to happen once you get snowed in and you barely have enough to last you a week and a half?

Which is why he keeps coming around. Bringing his own things, preserves, jerky, canned goods— all under the guise of having “made too much”. Proving he has what it takes to care for you. You don’t really get it, he can tell from the look on your face, but you appreciate the treats.

He can’t get the image of you licking into a nearly empty jar of blueberry compote with your too long tongue out of his head. Of course his girl wouldn’t be wasteful.

Price only gets broodier as the dead of winter approaches. A blizzard is forecasted— and he all but demands that you stay at his place. He has a generator, firewood, a full larder— you don’t. You follow easily, like a dog rolling over to have its belly rub. What’s to protest?

He insists you sleep in his bed. Why waste the body heat when you could share? He barely has to prompt you before you’re rolling around, playing in his sheets, rubbing your scent everywhere. Sun bears mate year round, so you always smell just a little ripe and juicy— and it drives him crazy.

Having you in his bed, keeping you warm, feeding you…. It pushes him into that state of mind. You’re not in a man’s house anymore, you’re in a bear’s den, and his body knows what comes in spring, even if yours doesn’t.

He grinds up against you in his half-asleep daze, his nose buried in your neck as he mutters about what you’ll look like all fat and happy from overwintering with his cubs inside you. You might be a bit too small to take his cock at first, and it might be a bit of struggle to carry his brood, but you’ll have him to get you ready. He’ll look after you every step of the way, so just don’t worry your pretty head about it, ok?

[sigh-tofm]

if you’re afraid of the dark …

… price

- keeps the dark away. gets table lamps for every surface in the house (you come along to pick out the screens). puts up floodlights in the backyard and connects them to motion detectors. if the house doesn’t have a connected garage, he has one built or considers moving, so you can easily access your car even at night. sometimes asks simon to hang around the house (unbeknownst to you) when he’s not there to look after you himself. he does have a few very real enemies, after all.

… kyle

- helps you face your fears. takes you on walks at night, progressively straying further and further from the lit paths. sometimes borrows a retired k9 to walk with you, or to stay home with you when he’s deployed. doesn’t know exactly what you’re afraid of (except for the anamorphous threat of the dark), but tries to make sure you can defend yourself. teaches you close combat. gives you pepper spray even though it’s illegal and slips a sharp little pocket knife into your purse.

… johnny

- is also a little afraid, honestly. holds your hand for both of your benefit. if he forgets something in the car, it can stay there until morning. his fear makes you a little less afraid, though. big, strong, reckless military guy like him, won’t go outside alone at night? suddenly you don’t think the darkness is all that scary. you put the previously forgotten bins out at midnight while he watches from the window. he checks and triple checks the locked doors after you come in. you rub his back in bed after.

… simon

- is there. follows you around the house at night like a shadow. doesn’t let you do anything alone. mutters ‘jus me, luv’ when you’re both in the cellar for something and he touches your back and you flinch, strung high. keeps his hand there while you do what you need to. stands between you and the bathroom door when you do your nightly routine in front of the mirror. says it’s protect you from the darkness outside the door. leans against the door and struggles to keep his eyes open. taking care of his luv is tiresome.

[pricegouge]

cellar door

cw: f!reader, implied skinny/fit, sorry. had to go through a window :( horror elements. you've got a live-in.

fucking tuesdays. nothing good ever happens on a tuesday.

hit snooze too many times, found the eggs had gone off only as you were making breakfast, burnt the coffee. you throw in the towel a whole twenty minutes after waking up and dump all your progress, deciding you'll risk being late for work just so you can stop by some place quick and get a breakfast that isn't actively trying to eat you back. you're checking your balance as you walk out the door, distracted by the forgotten subscription renewal that had gone through the night before. fuck, maybe you should skip breakfast after all -?

and then the car door doesn't give when you try the handle.

"oh, get bent," you hiss through gritted teeth as you try it again, futilely. head tilted back to stare up at the cold, dark sky, pulling at the handle in frustration. once for each of the pale white winter morning stars still glinting away.

it's too damn early for this.

you know yourself too well to even bother checking your coat pockets for your keys, but you do anyway out of desperation. as expected, you come out empty and for a moment you just stand there with your forehead thumped against the door frame while you picture yourself walking out the back door, nose stuck in your phone as you bypass the key holder without so much as a parting glance. you locked the door behind yourself - you know you did, but you try it anyway just to be sure. wouldn't do to pull your landlord out of bed just to have him show up and try the knob, call you an idiot before the sun's even out.

of all the stupid shit you've already pulled this morning, you wouldn't put it past yourself, honestly, but of course securing your house was the one thing you'd managed to complete successfully.

your boss is understanding when you text her. 'take your time. and stay warm!' a point you hadn't considered until she said it, the chill seeping in through the seams of your coat as you stand on your back porch, debating. if you could at least get into your car, you'd have options. potential tools you could maybe use to break in. but as it stands, you've nothing, and a call to your vaguely lecherous landlord is seeming more and more imminent. snow crunches under boot as you round the house, desperate. you'd be proud of how diligent you've been in locking windows, if not for the fact that you could really use an open one right about now. giving in, you pull your phone from your pocket again and grumble when you drop it, fingers gone numb with the chill. crouching low, you dig it out of the snow and check for pavement marks in the low light from the streetlamp across the road. except, your screen isn't the only glass the light catches - a dull glaze reflecting in the basement window before you, rickety casing looking quite promising.

your phone works well enough to use the flashlight, at least. you frown in distaste at the mess of cobwebs on the other side of the window, but between a creepy unfinished basement and an asshole landlord who spends just as much time leering at you as he does belittling your concerns, you'll try your luck with the slumbering spiders.

the panes hang crookedly. two panels, side by side. there's some concern about whether or not you'll even be able to fit through it if you can manage to get it open, but you give it a rough estimate and decide to try anyway - jimmying the first panel until it rocks forward in its soggy frame, enough so that you can squirm a stick between the two where they're latched together, loosely.

probably, you should be concerned how easy it is to knock the lock. you add it to the list of things your landlord will never fix for you.

while the soggy casing had made for an easy in, it's much harder to actually slide the window open. you grunt in effort, cold fingers cramping when you finally get enough space to slip them around the frame. the wood creaks. you worry for a moment that the pane will shatter before it gives an inch, and then nearly topple over when it opens all at once. the cobwebs beyond stretch and warp. snap, brittle with age. snow gives way before you, a small avalanche that collects on the dirt floor below. you're not overly familiar with the basement - have tried all your tenancy to avoid venturing into it - but you remember from the house tour that the north half, up near where the trap door in the front porch opens, at least boasts a cement slab. no such luck here, it seems. the frame digs into your belly when you shimmy through, feet first. there's a small moment of vertigo as you free fall and you can't help squirming in disgust when your hands trail down the slimy blocks that make up the walls. you wipe them off on your jeans as best you can before retrieving your phone from your pocket and throwing the hood of your coat up for an added layer of protection from the general grime.

your flashlight casts a tight circle, a problem seeing as you're slightly disoriented and unsure where the door to the stairway is. you aim it at the ceiling and cringe further into the protection of your coat when it reveals nothing more than a good few decade's worth of cobwebs built up between the beams.

concentrate. somewhere, there's a bare bulb with a pull chain. if you could just -

adrenaline piqued with the stress of your situation, you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. irrational anger mounting, you don't even spare a glance at the contact before snapping into the receiver, "Yeah?"

your frustration only builds when you're greeted by the gruff voice of your landlord, made all the more gravelly by the fact that he'd clearly just woken up. "you leave for work yet?"

"john…" the question catches you off guard, gives you pause as you stumble in your efforts to simultaneously use the flash light while also speaking with him. "pardon?"

"have you left for work yet?"

you'd take a deep, calming breath if the thought of inhaling this dank air didn't make you want to hurl, just a little. instead you take a moment to switch the call to speaker phone, move a little further into the room. "can't say i have. why do you ask?"

he grunts, sounding a little perturbed when he continues. "well. might recommend you do."

despite yourself, his presence on the line calms you down enough to brave the cobwebs and you slink forward, trying hard as you can to not process your surroundings even as you search for the door. "why's that?"

"neighbor called, love. said they just watched someone crawl through the basement window."

he gives it all the levity it deserves, but you can't help scoffing at him, nervous humor only building when you hear his jaw clenching on the other end of the line. "sorry. i don't mean to laugh." you pause to collect yourself, take a look around and find your route out. "but i wouldn't worry too much. i locked myself out and decided to try the window instead of bothering you first thing in the morning." a fairly diplomatic way of saying you'd rather navigate the saw bathroom that is your own cellar than deal with him. not too bad, all things considered.

"oh, darl', it's no trouble. climb on back outta that creepy basement and i'll be right over."

for a moment you picture him the way he must see himself: riding up in his battered yet dependable pick up just to save you from the cold. hard telling what makes your stomach turn more, him or the mud which gives under your boot, soft belly of your house. you step up onto the cement slab just as a series of thuds overhead draw your attention - heavy enough to rain dust from the rafters. panda, you imagine, her wide haunches bunching as she thunders through the house, far too heavy for a cat. you should probably put her on a diet. "your house is haunted," you accuse instead by way of reply, eager to steer the conversation away from him coming to save you and rendering your whole excursion null.

"might be," he muses. "but don't fret, love. ghost likes pretty things like you."

"right." you'd roll your eyes if you weren't so busy focusing on your footsteps, picking your way carefully lest you step on a mouse carcass or something equally heinous.

"anyway, what's your plan? the inner door on the porch will be locked too, won't it?"

the one into the dining room, he means. the one you're definitely guilty of never locking because panda likes to spend her evenings in the entry and you don't see the harm when there's a perfectly functional locked door on the enclosed porch. "it's not," you hedge, unsure if you want to be telling your landlord this considering it's his property you're putting in danger.

"darl'," john drawls, and you cut him off before he can add a good reprimand to the list of things you've had to endure this morning.

"yes, it will be locked after this, i promise. i just didn't realize how easy it would be to come in through the basement window."

"always the easiest ones to go through," he grumbles, and you think you hear his car door slam in the background of his call.

"i told you not to bother coming," you groan, kicking over a stack of old paint cans in your haste to make it to the door. like it's a race, like if you make it into the house before he can get there then he won't make you even more late for work, loitering around to check for damages to his basement window and jawing at you about home security.

the door's an old thing. thick wood gone warped and wilted with the damp. it's swollen in its frame, fights you when you try to pull it from the jamb. you grunt loud enough that you don't quite catch your landlord's response, and then zone him out altogether as the door finally yanks free and light spills in from above, the trapdoor at the top of the stairs wide open, overhead porch light glowing cheerily - unawares of the omen it brings. you shuffle back a step, another, try to hide among the shadows of the cellar even as your landlord's deep voice carries on. your fingers scrabble over the screen, smother the unit in your coat - anything to keep his commanding voice from carrying because you know. you know you didn't leave the light on, much less the trap door open.

nonsensically, your thoughts scatter, imagine panda investigating the porch, the staircase below. your head swivels behind as if to check for her even as you keep slinking sideways, skirting the ring of light until your back presses against the grit of the wall - instinctual, easily defensible.

"john," you hiss, risking the light of your phone enough to take it back out, turn off the flashlight, take him off speaker phone, call for help. keep at it even as he carries on, much too loud to hear you.

"- and who would i be if i didn't come to help, hm? can't have you -."

"john! fuck -! listen to me!" you're not even sure he hears you, quiet as you're being. he certainly doesn't stop droning on, though he stops when he hears you squeak, foot catching on something low and soft which pillows your fall when you collapse onto it, cold blankets enveloping you, damp and sweaty.

you gag as you roll, stop dead when another series of thuds echo over head. other direction now, back the way they'd come. your eyes track the path, land on the halo of light spilling through the door just as the intruder's shadow cuts across, impossibly big with the exaggerated angle. without the added light from your phone, you're plunged into relative darkness, the small circle of thin amber light ringing the door scattered by the severe contour of the man upstairs. there's nowhere to hide, really, and your only option is to keep slinking back into the recesses of the basement, too afraid to try scurrying back out the window lest he sees your legs kicking as you try to heave yourself out.

boots lumber into view first, heavy and mud-caked. instinctively, your eyes fall to the dirt you're treading over and seek out the treads. broad, huge. deep scores indicating how heavy he is, how many times he's worn a path into the ground. among them you spot tiny paw prints, almost as disturbing. panda follows after, bobbing into view as she weaves between his legs with a silent cry for attention until she detects you, golden eyes glinting ominously as she scans the basement before leading him in, making a beeline for you the moment she alights on the landing.

traitor.

he's not far behind, ducking through the door while you try to shoo your own car. you force your limbs to move and slide further along the wall, folding under the empty, built-in shelf your shoulder bumps into as you go. it's filthy, cobwebs clinging to the skin of your face as you settle, but you clamp a hand over your mouth and stifle the whimper that builds, ears strained for any movement in the darkness laid out before you.

john's still in your ear, quieter now. as if he knows something isn't right. "sweetheart?" he prompts, and you feel a tear slip down your face when you realize that despite taking him off speaker phone, you'd never turned the volume down. your thumb finds the side buttons now, clicks until john's breathing is no more than a comforting whisper, no louder than your own.

no louder than the response you risk, voice hollow, only really audible on the plosives. "john, there's someone here."

"what's that, darl'?"

your breath hitches before you can respond, the low click and hum of a bare bulb flickering to life leeching your words. it floods the room in fits and starts, turns the man's movements jagged and inhuman as he lowers his arm back to his side until finally it settles into a constant, thin and yellow. he stands directly below the bulb, the shadows of his face severe and gaunt, an odd contrast to his broad stature. for a long moment, he just lingers there, dark gaze shifting slowly around the room. you follow it, try to see what he sees, figure out if there's anything that could give you away.

you don't make it that far, eyes catching on all the accoutrement that lines the walls. bed, stool. small pile of familiar books.

a cat litter box.

disinterested in you when you're not giving her treats or pets, the moment shatters as panda returns to him, headbutting his boots cheerily and begging for pets. he crouches to pick her up and she climbs onto his shoulder with a familiarity that unsettles you further, speaks to how long he's been spending his days with her. she doesn't move when he does, enjoys her high vantage as he cuts across the room, boots squelching in the dirt. he passes by you on his way to the window and shuts it easily, warped wood barely giving him any trouble. in the muted light from the window, you see the odd shadows of his face which you'd noted before are simply the hollows of a skull motif on the balaclava he wears.

"darlin', you still there?"

but you're not, boots tearing up the mud as you scramble out from your hiding place. panda follows you, the familiar heavy thud of her paws when she jumps from her perch a comfort. she passes you on the stairs even as you take them two at a time, chest puffing with the steep incline. at the top you turn and slam the trapdoor down, the white of his mask all you can see peering up at you from the darkness before the door falls into place. there's nothing on the porch heavy enough to brace it, but you try anyway, pulling the cheap patio set closer and shepherding panda through the inner door in the same move, the little shit apparently more afraid of you and your erratic movements than she was the basement dweller with the skull mask.

you lock the inner door after you fall through it, watch in horror through the transom as the furniture heaves, a powerful quake that tosses them to the side before the door creeps open, hollow eyes checking for a trap before heavy, gloved fingers wrap around it properly, push it wide.

impossibly, he seems even bigger here, above ground, where you have a better gauge of normalcy. he eclipses the whole room, blots out the overhead light when he looms closer to the door, dark eye pressed against the pane so he can peer through a fractal in the glass, same as you'd just been. you back further into the dining room, bump against the table just as you feel his gaze on you. it distracts you from the sound of the key in the lock, the creak of the hinges what finally compels you to fucking run.

keys in hand this time, you book it out the back door and slam head first into a sturdy chest, legs flailing under you until john helps right you, fingers bruising hard on your arms as he tries to shush you into submission. he won't let you go no matter how much you shriek, just pulls you to his chest and smothers your cries there, orders you to tell him what's wrong even as he walks you back up the stairs.

somehow, between your shouting and your panting and your sobbing, he gets it: man down there; living there.

"oh, honey, that's just your ghost," he soothes, wrangling you through the screen door with a grip on your jaw which he uses to tilt your head the intruder's way, makes you watch as he lumbers closer, john's voice a low scratch of whiskers against your ear. "told you he liked you."

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - mentions of kidnapping/imprisonment, implied alcohol consumption, and reader referred to as 'mother'/'mom' but otherwise gender-neutral.

You let yourself into Arlecchino’s study exactly four strokes after midnight. Even from the doorway, she could see the crimson stain of wine on your lips, the tell-tale lilt to your posture. Clearly, your chosen habitat that night had been the House of the Hearth’s wine cellar – a not completely unusual pastime of yours, on its own. The fact that you were coming to her after drinking your fill was more notable.

She allowed you to stumble from the doorway to her desk before ever glancing up from the correspondence she was attempting to will herself to finish. Whichever one of her vintages you’d favored, it must’ve given you the strength to withstand the weight of the gaze you were always so quick to shy away from, the courage to all-but lay yourself across the crowded tabletop. Despite your new dauntlessness, your expression was sullen, your eyes glassy with tears yet to flow over. It was a face she was used to seeing in the confines of her chambers, or better yet, on the edge of her knee as she kept you perched in her lap through an otherwise dull meeting. Familiarity alone might’ve been enough to soften her, had she had any idea as to the source of your apparent distress.

 You didn’t speak until you were settled. Arlecchino remained patient, limiting herself to a slight smile and the melodic drumming of pointed nails against polished mahogany. “Peruere,” you drawled, her given name a honey-sweet slur on your tongue. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“I see.” It took every ounce of her impressive self-restraint not to laugh aloud. “What a shame. Remind me exactly what it is we can’t do, love?”

“I can’t do this.” You gave a sweeping gesture, nearly violent enough to knock yourself off-balance. “It’s not you—I mean, it is you, with the kidnapping and imprisonment and all, but aside from that, I just—” A deep, shuddering breath, followed shortly by a pitchy, almost keening noise. “I’m just not ready to be a mother.”

This time, Arlecchino couldn’t stop herself – a single, breathy chuckle slipping past her lips. Your frowned deepened, and she did her best to sober quickly. “I’m sorry, I—” She steepled her fingers in front of her, leaning forward to rest her chin on the point of intersection. “I suppose I wasn’t aware you were going to be.”

If you heard, you clearly weren’t listening. Rather unceremoniously, the glass splintered; your thin veneer of composure falling away as the first tear broke free, shortly followed by a second, then a third. She lost count somewhere around the dozenth. “It’s not that I don’t love your children,” you started, your voice cracking as you struggled to wipe at your eyes between words. “I mean, I love them all in spite of them being yours, which is actually really impressive because I find you so unbearably off-putting to be around, but— I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this level of responsibility. There’s… how many? Fifty of them? Two hundred?”

“My love.” She pushed herself to her feet, dulling her voice into the softest, smoothest possible coo. “Isn’t it about time for you to retire for the night?”

“How could you possibly want to go to sleep at a time like this?” You were sobbing now, rather unabashedly. All attempts to maintain your dignity had been laid aside in favor of burying your face in your palms and hanging your head almost pitifully low. “I have five hundred kids to take care of!”

Whether you were too distracted to notice her arms wrapping around you or simply too panicked to care, it would’ve been impossible to say. You failed to protest as she pulled you against her chest, only sniffling miserably and burying your face in her coat. “You seem to have forgotten that ‘Father’ is only a title,” she murmured as gently as she could, letting her lips brush against the top of your head, then your tear-stained cheek. “Most of my children have already grown out of the need for a true mother and father, and I doubt those who haven’t view either of us in a very paternal light. Do you understand?”

There was a delay, but she felt you nod against her chest. Arlecchino could only sigh, already moving to exit her study. “Let’s get you to bed, dear.”

~

You were still unconscious by the time she rose the next morning, no doubt putting off the inevitable hangover. She left you where you lied and, after making sure a pitcher of water would be waiting for you when you woke up, went about her obligations.

It was only a few hours later that, during a conversation with Lyney, he seemed to pause, to glance to either side. Whatever he’d planned to say was quickly forgotten in favor of a new tangent. “I don’t think I’ve seen mom yet, today.”

At that, Arlecchino perked up. “Mom?”

He caught himself quickly, straightening. “Mother, I mean. (Y/n). My apologies, Lynette's disregard must be rubbing off on me.”

She took a moment to purse her lips, to do what she often did best and consider the information that’d been laid at her feet. “Lyney,” she said, eventually, when she’d made up her mind.

“Next time you use that name, make sure your mother is within earshot.”

[juletheghoul]

home

a/n: The premiere look was a literal gift from the Gods, truly fantastic stuff. With that said, of course I had to work on the next chapter of The General and his Girlwife. This isn't the end for them, there is still so much life for them and I have a whole inbox full of amazing asks (I promise I haven't forgotten about them!) to get through, and I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus eats pussy because he's a KING, lactation kink, creampie, Marcus gets emotional, pregnancy and baby stuff, childbirth and some graphic descriptions of pain, talks of infertility, **FEELINGS** let me know if I missed any!

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 5k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

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The ritual had been completed, and a week later–life had gone back to normal. The two of you had vowed to put it out of your mind until the Gods made their intentions for you clear. 

Marcus, however, was leaving; he'd been called on by the Emperor for a tour, and he had no choice but to accept.

You pouted, and he smiled. 

“It is only for a short time, my love. Barely a moon's turn and I will be back in this house, and your arms.” He smiled despite your obvious displeasure, giddy with the way you clutched so greedily at him. 

“I wish to follow you Marcus, I do not wish to stay here without you.” You buried your face into his neck, taking in his comforting scent greedily. Your nails dug into his shoulders, holding him close while his own wrapped tightly around your waist. 

“And I wish nothing more than for you to be with me, but you cannot. It is not a place for women and I would not have my beautiful,” his hands cupped your cheeks, pressing kisses to your mouth between words, “lovely, tempting wife there pulling at my attention, as well as that of the bolder men in my company.”

You sigh, knowing he would not change his mind. 

“Very well. I will content myself alone.” Your tone made him laugh, and you smiled into his skin, well aware that you sounded more akin to an unruly child than a grown, married woman. 

“You are spoiled, terribly misbehaved and spoiled.” His hands slipped down and grabbed at your backside, “and it is entirely my fault.” 

“Yes it is.” You jut your chin out and he pressed a kiss to it. “When do you leave?” 

“Preparations are being made and I depart in three days time.” He pressed another kiss to the back of your hand, smiling as he led you to sit with him. “Once I am back, I shall plan something for us. How does that sound?” 

“And what shall you plan?” 

“We could travel, we could go to the sea and take in the fresh air, we could do anything my love. Whatever makes you happy.” His eyes shone with the same love you felt in your very bones for him. 

“I only need you for that.” 

-

The intensity of the craving made you frown, pulling your attention from the task of refilling the cellars of your house. One minute you had been taking note of how much grain there was, how much olive oil and wine was in your stores and the next, the desire for figs and honey and fresh, ripe pomegranate was so strong it almost moved your feet towards the kitchens. You stopped yourself though, running through your mental tally of days since your last blood and willing yourself to stay calm. 

“Girl, be a dear and fetch me figs and honey if you would.” You pat her hand softly, unable to stop yourself from softening the imagined blow of asking for something instead of fetching it yourself. Her eyes widened for a moment, before nodding. 

“Yes Domina.” She ran off, and you ignored the looks of the women who were helping you with your accounts. 

“Shall we call for a Medicus, Domina?” The eldest of them whispered in your ear, one who has always treated you with a softness that at times felt motherly, her work roughened hand landing soft on your shoulder. Nerves fluttered in your belly, a deep seeded fear threading through your very being as the memory of your loss filled your mind's eye so vividly it set your hands to shaking. But another emotion emerged, a fragile thing coloured with a hope so big it didn’t fit within your body. Without Marcus, it was difficult to navigate the swirl of different feelings fighting for dominance.

“Domina, let me call for the Medicus.” Gently, she guided you to sit, silently dismissing the staff tending to you. “I think it best you rest while we wait, I shall have him brought here to look you over.” 

“Yes, yes that is what we must do. I—yes I should rest a while.” With a shaky breath you smiled a smile that did not reach your eyes, and headed towards your chamber. 

When the medicus finally did arrive, the older woman held your hand, doing much to calm you in the absence of Marcus. Silently the man went about his business, checking and prodding and looking for the signs that you tentatively prayed were there. 

When he raised his head and smiled with a nod, both you and the woman cried with joy.

-

He was eager to step foot in his house, eager to be reunited with his heart. 

His blessedly peaceful campaign had gone well, the Emperor was in good spirits and for the first time in years, there was peace. He couldn’t wait to tell her how it had gone, couldn’t wait to press his kisses upon her skin. 

The house was surprisingly quiet when he finally arrived, the guards were hushed, his usual attendants were nowhere to be seen and his love was not where he thought he’d find her. 

When he reached their shared room things were stranger still, the gauzy linens were drawn across the windows, blocking out most of the sunlight. Incense was burning, and for a moment he feared she’d fallen ill while he’d been gone.

“My love? What is the matter?” She reclined in their bed, propped up on a nest or pillows, and her face lit up to see him. She was glowing, a soft sheen shining on her brow and for a moment he thought it might be a fever but she looked well, she looked beautiful. 

“I am well Marcus, truly.” She beckoned to him, arms outstretched and he all but ran to her side, sitting close to hold her hands. “We have been blessed, my love, truly blessed.” Tears shone in her eyes, he frowned for a moment until she placed his hand on her belly, and then it felt like his heart would jump out of chest. 

“You are sure?” He brought his face to her womb, pressing his lips to it while trying not to fall apart with joy. “Truly?”

“It has been confirmed, I am with child. You are to be a father, Marcus.” She shone with life, with vitality and was as beautiful as a Goddess, he couldn’t handle the joy in his heart. He wept into her belly, thanking the Gods, and praying for the health of the love of his life, and the child inside her.

-

Every single day of those first few weeks greeted you with fear.

Every free minute, every spare thought was filled with silent prayer, offerings were made to appease the Gods, you ate only the foods suggested by the Medicus. Marcus let you do nothing except rest, and take short, slow walks throughout the house. He was thorough with the instructions given to him, he rubbed the special oil onto the skin of your belly to help with the growth, he never left your side, he was gentle in all things. 

Once you started to show, and the most dangerous period had passed, even you started to shed some of the fear. Hope, and joy filled the house and everyone shared in it. The women were eager to have a little one running around, Marcus grew more and more excited at the prospect and filled your house with things for the child. Toys and a special chair, robes and little tunics to dress them in.

“Have you thought of a name?” You asked him as he rubbed at your tired feet, easing the ache as your stomach seemed to grow before your very eyes. 

“I have, but I haven’t really given any option much thought. It is best to wait until the child is born I think. And you? Is there a name you favour?”

“Well, a boy would definitely be named Marcus after you.” You smiled, imagining a miniature of him. 

“And for a girl?”

“We could honour the Gods, name her Diana, I also think Aurelia is quite pretty, or Acacia and name her after her father.” Your smile grew, imagining a little darling with his soft waves, his square feet.

“Fine choices.” He smiled, moving to the other foot and you sighed, soothed by his touch. 

“I will pray for a boy, to carry your name and carry on your legacy.” He shook his head.

“Give me a clever girl with your eyes, and your smile and I shall be happier than any other man alive.” He pressed a kiss to your shin. Tears sprung to your eyes, it was happening a lot of late, the baby made your emotions run rampant, his sweetness didn’t help.

“There there my love, no tears.” He soothed with gentle tone, well aware of your sensitivity, yet still as patient and loving as always. 

“I cannot help it, the joy is overwhelming, the love for you, for this little being is too much to fit inside me.” You held your belly, tears falling to dampen the skin of your chest. He moved to sit beside you, and gathered you into his arms, once again soothing you beyond words could explain. 

“I understand, I have been so blessed in this life it is difficult not to dwell and fear the worst. Let us just enjoy our good fortune, no more tears, it pains me to see you cry.” He pressed his lips to your forehead and you nodded silently, throat aching with emotion. 

With a tenderness that only made the ache stronger, he kissed the tear stains on your skin, smiling softly. When he got to your mouth, it was a reassuring press, a silent promise to you and to the life growing inside. It helped, but your mood, your appetites changed like the winds these days and the tears turned to desire for him so fast it made your head spin. 

Your tongue breached his mouth, corrupting the softness of his kiss and pulling a groan from somewhere in his chest. His hand pressed softly to your womb, while his mouth claimed yours in the softness of your shared bed. 

“Marcus-” It came out half moaned, half pleading. 

“Yes my love?” He breathed the words into the skin of your neck, his tongue mapping out the lines he liked to travel with his kisses, unsurprised at how quickly your passion for him was stirred with the child inside.

“Do you desire me? Do you wish for me to give you my cock?” Slowly, he exposed you, pulling the special tunic made to accommodate your belly off. The large swell, the heavy weight of your breasts, the swelling in your feet–all of the changes in your body had made you fear he would no longer find you desirable. He’d been quick to correct that assumption however. 

With your lip caught between your teeth, you nodded. 

Carefully, he turned you on your side, supporting the weight of your belly with pillows and linens before divesting himself of his own layers. The sight of him, skin golden and cock hardening turned your cunt to liquid. He smiled at the open desire on your face, positioning himself so he straddled the thigh resting on the bed, while lifting and holding the other, lining himself up at the mouth of your cunt. 

“Are you comfortable?” Your heart swelled for a moment, smiling at him before nodding. 

He took himself in hand, stroking a few times to bring himself to full mast before finally sinking in to the hilt. 

“So wet.” He whispered almost to himself, eyes focused on the way your cunt swallowed his length whole, coating it in your arousal. “My pretty little wife, with her pretty little cunt.” His fingers gripped at your thigh while he found his rhythm, angling himself to find the spot–

You keened, gasping as he huffed out a satisfied laugh. 

“There it is, that is the spot, yes?” He focused, hitting it like a bullseye while you clutched at the linens, too blissed out to answer but it mattered not, he knew. Sweat beaded on his brow, the muscles in his arms gleamed in the low candlelight as he panted out his exertion. His beauty so obvious, so highlighted there as he loved you that it filled the little space in your belly not filled with his child with the beating of butterfly wings. 

Your fingers reached out to him, needing to feel him surround you and he smiled, leaning forward to catch the tips of them with his lips while his hips moved faster. Your arousal pooled at the base of him, soaking the fine patch of hair between your legs, as well as the curls at the base of his cock.

With a crooked grin, he reached between your legs to swirl his thumb around your swollen clit and the climax is so close your legs start to tremble. 

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop Marcus–” It was so close, building like a fire in your hips, spreading like lightning throughout your veins, dripping from where you were joined onto the linens of your bed. Your hand crept down, joining his to press his fingers closer, to guide his movements faster until you burst around him, squeezing him so tight he groaned and slowed his steady thrusting to a grind, his groin pressed tight. Your cunt fluttered around him, pleasure blooming and flooding your body like good, strong wine and it only intensified when he started moving again, chasing his own end while you floated on your cloud. It only took him a few thrusts before he filled you, fucking his seed deep. 

His chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, smiling and laughing softly as he pulled himself out.

Your combined passion smeared against your hip when he surged forward to claim your mouth in a kiss. His big hand curled around the curve of your neck softly, such a contrast to how it gripped your thigh. It slid down, smooth as silk before squeezing at your breast. 

“Oh!’ The warm drip shocked you, the milk beaded at your nipple before dripping down the valley between your breasts. The bigger shock though, was how quickly he chased it with his tongue. The arousal only flared again, sharp as a knife at the moan he let out. With an almost drunk expression, he wrapped his lips around the peak, and tasted your milk straight from the source. 

“Good?” Your fingers threaded through his sweat-soaked waves, cradling him close while he drank deep. His expression was almost sheepish, almost ashamed when he pulled away. 

“I do not know what has come over me,” He licked at the tip, staring at the other breast longingly, “I had to taste you, it’s so sweet.” He dipped his head again, drinking from the other breast, deep, strong pulls that only made the red hot coal of desire within you burn even brighter than before. When he pulled away he was breathing hard, shocked at his own reaction. 

“Did I hurt you?” He licked at sensitive peaks again, filling your brain with a fog of lust so strong you could barely think. 

“No, not at all, it feels really good.” You pulled him closer, urging him to drink, while guiding his hand between your legs. With a knowing grin, he obeyed. 

-

You knew from the moment your eyes opened in the morning, that the baby would come. There was an ache, a pulsing, a violence to its movements within your womb. The child was as impatient to emerge, as you were to give birth and finally have it whole and healthy in your arms. 

With a sigh, you tried to adjust yourself, smiling as Marcus pressed himself closer in his sleep, his big hand holding the swell. 

“I think today is the day, hmm?” You whispered to your belly, it kicked hard enough to make you wince. 

“Gods above, I felt that one, this child will be strong.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pulling another sigh from you. “How are you feeling?”

“I think it will be today, it feels like the baby has moved lower.” You did your best to rise, groaning before he all but lifted you to sit upright. 

“I will make the preparations, the midwife is ready and waiting for our summons.” He rose quickly, making you laugh with his urgency.

“Peace Marcus, it will not be right this second, but I do feel it mightl be today.” You stood, gingerly padding towards him, waving away his frown of concern. “Walking is good for me, it will help me with my labours.” He still frowned, meeting you halfway and squeezing you as tightly as he could without causing you pain. 

“I will be with you, at your side the whole time.” There was a small tremble in his voice you did not recognize, a nervous aura about him that seemed to bolster you. How curious, you thought, that his moment of fear, is my moment of courage. 

“The midwife and her attendants will be there, most men wait until the child is born–”

“I am not most men. I will be with you, holding your hand and wiping at your brow. This is a battle I cannot fight for you, but no one will keep me out of that room.” He pressed his face into your neck and you softened, his fear was justified. Many children did not survive their coming into the world, many mothers died alongside them. You said nothing, nodding softly as his fingers dug into your robes. 

The sun made its way across the sky and as it did your pains grew stronger. Cramps painful enough to steal your breath would squeeze at you like a fist for a few minutes before releasing you. The midwife walked with you, she took note of how much time passed between each attack, readying the birthing stool as well as her oils, her sponges and enough water and linens to be able to tend to both you and the baby. 

The sun was kissing the horizon when the water came, spilling all over your feet like a tidal wave and sending Marcus into a cold panic. 

The midwife did her examinations while your body ripped itself in two. With barely contained screams, and sweat dripping down your brow you got into position, doing your best to focus on your breathing while Marcus kept his word, silently wiping at your brow, and letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you could. 

“It must be now, push.” The midwife and one of her girls were in place, moving your robes aside to have access and you did what you had to do. You pushed. 

It was agony. 

It was liquid fire burning its way through your body, this baby wasn’t being born, it was clawing and tearing its way out of you. 

Marcus whispered into your ear, encouragingly, lovingly, patiently guiding you to breathe, to not give up. He reminded you how strong you were, how loved and how soon it would be over. How could it be over soon? It felt as though this pain had been with you at your own birth, all of your life this pain has been here, it had to be. Hours, days? You could not tell how long it had been.

You cried, you begged for it to end, you willed it to be so; shouted and screamed that it hurt too much, that it was too hard and that you could not do it. You told them that the baby would not come, that you could not do this, you were not strong enough. You screamed that this would surely kill you, you would tear in two and die.

“You will not die, you can do this, my love. Bear down, and push.” His gaze was steely, focused and firm and it filled you with courage.

With a sob and a scream you pushed, and pushed. You pushed so much you thought you’d burst and then pushed more still. Until finally, blessedly, the baby came out.

“You have done it! You have done it my love, my beautiful, strong, courageous girl, you have done it!” Tears were in his eyes as he held onto your limp form, but he was not looking at you. 

“Why does the child not cry?” It felt like you’d drunk too much wine, the relief from the pain so great you would faint soon, yet still, silence. There was a lot of movement, a terrifying moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity and despite Marcus all but carrying you and laying you back to rest, no one met your eye. 

“Answer me, Marcus, why does the baby not cry? Give it to me! Is it a boy? Is it a girl?” Tears flowed and fear swelled like bile crawling up your throat until a cry loud enough to hurt your ears sounded and the entire room breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

“She is a beautiful, healthy and whole baby girl.” Swaddled and screaming, the bundle was placed at your breast. Marcus sobbed, openly and loudly into your shoulder, his big hand covering her tiny head while you looked at her in awe. She had so much hair, such strong lungs, such a force that you laughed, still crying. 

“Yes my little love, I know, you fought so hard.” You pressed a kiss to her little brow, doing your best to soothe her. 

She took to nursing your breast quickly, a good sign the midwife said and while she and her girls set everything to rights, you could focus on nothing but her. Her little hands clutched at you, taking a few greedy pulls before falling asleep, milk smeared all over her perfect face. 

“She is utterly perfect, she has your hands.” Marcus lay beside you, his gaze on her as though entranced. 

“She has your hunger.” You smiled, the euphoria eclipsing everything. It was so hard to stay awake though, the birth had taken so much out of you. 

“Give her to me and rest. I will be here with you.” With gentle hands, he took her, managing to put her onto his chest without waking her and before he’d even fully settled, sleep had claimed you. 

-

She had fought, both of them had. 

His girls had battled, fought tooth and nail and had come through victorious, though his love had paid a price. She’d bled, bled enough that it had frightened him, chilled him to the bone and when the midwife pulled him aside he already knew what she would say. There would be no more children, another birth might kill her. 

He mourned the fact that his daughter would have no siblings, no other children to fill this house alongside her but his wife would live. That was all that mattered. 

He watched her as she slept, glowing still, if a little wan, weakened by her labours but beautiful all the same. He could no longer imagine living this life without her, he could not see the joy in anything without her there beside him and now his daughter held the other half of his heart. She was the fruit of their union, she was the parts of them that would live on, the living embodiment of his good fortune and just the sight of her filled his eyes with tears. 

He pressed his lips to her little brow, smiling at the furrow in them when he jostled her, so like her mother it made him cry all the harder. 

This was all that mattered, his entire world was in this bed and he was loath to ever be separated from them again.

He didn’t know which name to call her, they’d never settled on anything. Acacia didn’t seem right, how could he name her after himself when she so resembled her mother already? Aurelia, that was pretty, Diana too. He would wait though, let her have the last say. He basked in the glow of the candles, in the comfort of his wife’s warm weight beside him, in the small weight at his chest and said another silent prayer in thanks.

-

She was so big already, three whole months and her growth never ceased to amaze you. She still looked tiny in her fathers arms, his broadness compared to her small body always made you smile, especially because for her he was less the brutal Roman General, and more of a soft, lump of honey. She ruled him implicitly, her every cry, her every happy sound was the reason he breathed.

“My love, I need to change her, those little robes are covered in milk.” There was no bite in your words, there could be no anger or annoyance in you at his adoration of her.

“Yes, yes you are right, she must be changed.” He smiled, bringing her to you. She was tired, yawning and fussing, fighting off her midday slumber with a fierceness that made you laugh. 

“Yes yes I know Diana, one moment and then your father will rock you.” You cooed at her, making quick work of the change and taking the opportunity to wipe her down with a damp cloth before returning her where she slept the best, her fathers chest.

Once he took her and sat at his favoured chair, she was out, little fist curled under her chin. This was his favourite, and yours. Watching her sleep peacefully, safe and loved within your arms, or his. 

“I never grow tired of studying her, already her little face is changing.”

He pressed his lips to her head, breathing in the clean, baby milk smell of her. 

“She will have your hair, already it curls when I wash it.” You thread your fingers through the fine wisps of it softly, smiling to imagine her older with curls flowing down her back. 

“She has your look, your look exactly. I am still in awe that we have created something so perfect.” His hand took yours and brought it to his lips, you bent to press yours to his forehead. 

“As am I, how blessed we are to have her, to have each other.” 

-

When he slipped into bed, you pressed your fingers to your lips, eyes wide to warn him.

“She is finally asleep, we must not wake her.” Your whisper was frantic, and he nodded.

“Yes my lady, I will be silent as the grave.” He pulled you close, whispering in your ear before pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. 

“So long as you can keep your voice down when I love you.” His hands pawed at you but you were so tired, it was hard to reconcile the intense want for him, with the ache of the day settling heavy on your bones. 

“My love, my mind desires this, but my body is so tired.” You pouted at him, mildly upset to deny him.

“Shall I use my mouth? You can lay back and relax, I can take care of you—my lovely girl deserves pleasure, and rest.” He smiled, undeterred and you could not help but smile. 

“And it does not bother you that I will just lay here? Most likely asleep before you have come up for air?” His grey waves were so soft when you raked your fingers through them. 

“It pleases me to please you, you are the mother of my child and the love of my life, I would do anything for you.” He kissed your fingers before spreading your legs wide with the breadth of his shoulders. “Do you wish for me to stop?” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and then the soft patch of hair at your mound, before kissing the lips of your sex. 

“No, I do not wish for you to stop.” You spread your legs a little wider and his smile grew bigger, letting a big glob of his own spit fall onto your sex before chasing it with his tongue.

He is focused, honed in with his gaze and with his tongue on your clit, flat wide licks from where your arousal drips up to the bundle of nerves and it’s like a spike of arousal pierced the very heart of you every time he swiped his tongue over it. Warm, wet and perfect, he swirled around it in time with your heartbeat, fanning the embers burning in your belly for him. 

The fingers that softly scratched at his scalp, now curled into the waves holding him in place as you struggled to keep your mouth shut, but he made it so difficult. The ache building as his brow creased with concentration and his own excitement. His own hand crept down and grasped his cock, stroking at it in time with the delicious circuit of his tongue. That he gained so much pleasure from this only heightened your own, and soon the knot tightened. 

Muscles clenched, all of your body a taut string waiting to snap with every pass, every strong lick. You pinched at a nipple, pulling his eyes up to find yours and he let out a low groan, the vibration of it pushed you over the edge with a silent gasp, and empty rhythmic clenches around nothing. He bestowed a final, filthy kiss to your overstimulated clit before moving quickly to get into position. With the shine of exertion glinting on his golden skin he knelt between your legs, pumping at himself furiously before silently, violently spilling onto your still fluttering sex. Hot, milky splashes of him covering it while he gripped at your thigh hard enough to bruise.

He caught his breath, smearing himself in his own mess between your legs past the point of discomfort. He was so beautiful like this, with the flush of passion lighting up his cheeks and his ears, spreading down his chest. 

He smiled, winking at you before he grabbed the cloth from the basin and cleansing the mess he had made. You wanted to hold and be held by him, but by the time he was done, you were already asleep.

-

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[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Keep

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Non-con, stalking, nudity, foul language, violence, glory-hole, sense deprivation, power imbalance, orgasm denial, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, creampies, and more. Word Count: 9,623 MDNI- NSFW

-----

The Heelshire mansion was your own personal hell. The sprawling stone structure seemed to stretch onwards forever, with nooks and crannies at every turn. With multiple floors, countless staircases, and forgotten rooms the manor seemed to be much more of a labyrinth than a household. Doors opened into empty cellars, books activated secret passageways, and every waking moment seemed to present another mystery. The house itself acted as if it were alive, the floorboards creaking under the slightest pressure, windows hissing at the faintest breath of wind. If you had any sense about you, you would have believed the legends that the house was very much, in fact, haunted. Yet the eerie atmosphere that the house produced was the least of your concerns, with something much more sinister afoot. 

Brahms. The porcelain doll that you were tasked with caring for was not only unnerving, but unearthly in every way. When introduced to the ungodly toy you had almost laughed, finding the request to babysit an inanimate object to be not only ridiculous, but a joke. Knowing your situation now weeks later, you wished you could take it back. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the reality of the situation. Items moving in the middle of the night, screeching across the floor so suddenly it tore you from any slumber you hoped to get. Paintings would topple from their hanging posts, crashing onto the hardwood floors at all hours. The light fixtures would flicker consistently, casting shadows on every surface within the house. The doll would move too, seemingly hopping from room to room in order to utterly terrify you. One night, you awoke to the wretched thing on your bed, the painted eyes staring at you, taunting you. 

That was the worst part, the feeling of always being watched. Walking into just about any room left the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up, a wave of goosebumps permanently etched into your skin. It felt as if the world was consistently closing in, the room folding in on itself and leaving nothing but you and that devilish doll. No matter the hour, no matter what you were doing, you felt as if eyes were burning holes into the back of your head. It left a shiver down your spine in a way that nothing could shake free, the chill of fear in your bones. At first, you thought you were going crazy, the weeks alone in the countryside finally taking their toll after having only the doll as company. But as the nights went on, bringing nothing less than supernatural events, you began to believe the rumors swirling around the brick manor were true. 

You never were a spiritual person, finding urban legends and ghost stories to be nothing short of fiction. Thinking the spirit of a ghost child possessing a doll sounded like something straight out of a horror movie, yet after hearing how the original Brahms was rumored to have killed a girl before perishing in a house fire, the doll seemed all the more terrifying. At night you could have almost swore hearing whispers through the walls, voices beckoning you to explore the darkness below. The thought alone would send fear coursing through your veins. Throughout all the torment, the paranormal events, and the paranoia, your fears were confirmed: the house wasn’t haunted. It was alive. 

Then there were the rules:

1. No guests.

2. Never leave Brahms alone.

3. Save meals in the freezer. 

4. Never cover Brahm’s face. 

5. Read a bedtime story.

6. Play music loud.

7. Clean the traps.

8. Only Malcolm brings in deliveries. 

9. Brahms is never to leave. 

10. Kiss goodnight. 

Those forsaken rules ran every segment of your life, daily routine completely overrun by caring for the doll and manor to the point where you were isolated from all other forms of life. Malcolm was your only saving grace, the weekly deliveries of groceries single handedly keeping your spiral to madness at bay. It felt as if the doll was draining the life from you, any slip within the rules resulting in the house completely turning against you. One fateful morning during your first week watching over Brahms, you had haphazardly thrown a blanket in Brahm’s direction, which ended up covering it completely. Almost immediately, the grandfather clock in the hallway had toppled over, the hundred year old antique smashing to pieces, causing you to jump out of your skin. From that moment onward, the rules were much more sinister than suggestion- they meant your survival. 

The soft sound of violin pulled you from your thoughts, causing your spine to straighten abruptly. Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” drifted from the gramophone throughout the Heelshire study, the calming melody dampening your mental spiral. Sitting up against the velvet armchair, you leaned closer to Brahms, who sat attentively in his own miniature chair and desk. Clearing your throat, you reached for one of the worn novels stacked on the wood. “How about another chapter of your book before bedtime?” You mused at the doll, who stared blankly back at you. Not expecting any sort of response, you pushed onwards, grabbing a hardcover copy of Robinson Crusoe, the yellowing pages fluttering under your grasp. 

Scooping Brahms into your arms from the chair, you padded towards the gramophone, lifting the needle from the record. The manor fell into silence, the absence of noise almost suffocating.  Sighing slightly, you glanced around the messy study, making a mental note to clean the bookshelves once Brahms was settled in bed. The smell of paper and pine wafted through the stale air of the room, and you sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve, holding Brahms at your hip. “Okay… let’s go. Time for bed.” You whispered, holding the doll as if it were a child against you. When you first began working at the manor, the thought of actually caring for the doll, much less speaking to it, seemed completely out of the question. As time passed, however, the supernatural elements that plagued your every move seemed to subside when you spoke to the doll, less angry when you played along. It kept you from going insane, anyways. 

Exiting the study, you shuffled through the foyer, yawning tiredly with Brahms and the book in tow. Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase, a shift in the light caught your eye. Turning slightly, you gazed at the bronze nameplate that seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. Of all the paintings in the manor, this had to have been your favorite. The painting was massive, spanning the entirety of the wall and encased in a mahogany frame. Depicted with utmost care was the Heelshire family in front of their house in an almost Victorian fashion. Mr Heelshire stood to the right, pocket watch in hand and towering over his wife. Draped in a luxurious evening gown, Mrs. Heelshire smiled playfully, hands clasped around an infant Brahms at her hip. They were the epitome of class and elegance, a young family that dripped in wealth and prowess. Your fingers traced the bronze nameplate tenderly, brushing a line of dust off the metal. The Heelshire family. 

Your brows furrowed, pity sinking into your heart as you gazed at the young couple in the painting. Little did they know their world would be torn apart eight years later, their own child perishing in the fire that almost claimed the manor. Your grasp on Brahms tightened subconsciously as you stared into Mrs. Heelshire’s painted eyes. You found it hard to pull away from the serene moment, lost in the emotion that seemed to swirl in her eyes. You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew you to the painting, something anchoring you in place every time you passed it, almost daring you to come closer. There was a sense of mystery surrounding the painted figures, the moment frozen in time for eternity in a way that left your head reeling with questions. 

A creak in the floorboards above tore through the eerie silence, and you ripped your gaze away from the painting. Brahms’ lifeless eyes seemed to burn into your skull, and you hoisted the doll up to eye level, inspecting the porcelain slightly. “Someone’s impatient…” You mused, shuffling the doll in your grip. Sparing the painting one last glance, you turned and continued your trek up the stairs, leaving the lower floor in silence. Unbeknownst to you, another creak in the floorboards rang throughout the house, the wooden panelling under the painting shaking as a force passed through, no behind it at an almost inhumane speed. And then, silence. 

—

Sighing tiredly, you finished the final button on Brahm’s sleepshirt, leaning back and admiring your handiwork. Tugging the embroidered comforter over the doll’s body, you fell backwards into the wooden rocking chair, pulling open the book once more. Shifting the bookmark from the worn pages, you leaned further against the padded chair, tucking your feet underneath your body. Clearing your throat, you glanced once more at the doll before beginning. “Chapter four: Crusoe considers. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such, perhaps-” The shudders behind you fluttered suddenly, the nighttime air whipping against the side of the house. You swallowed thickly, unease settling in your stomach. “-as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning-” The wall on the opposite side of the bed thumped loudly, almost toppling one of the shelves nailed to the wood. A startled yelp escaped you, and you whipped your head towards the doll. Nothing.

Gritting your teeth, you struggled to find your place in the book once more. “...I-....I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order.” Voice cracking, you snapped the book shut as the light fixture over your head flickered, casting the room in haunting shadows. “Brahms!” you chided, irritation boiling in your throat. Almost instantly, the light returned to its warm glow as the house seemed to settle under your words. “If you don’t want to read, you could have just said so.” you grumbled, shoving the book off your lap and watching it clatter to the floor haphazardly. Glaring at the doll, you rose from your spot and picked the book back up, placing it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Fingers tracing the cool glass of Brahms’ face, you swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine. 

You always hated kissing the doll, bile somehow forming when your lips pressed against the cool surface. Something about the action felt so… lewd, the air in the room instantly feeling heavy whenever it was time to kiss Brahms goodnight. Thousands of imaginary eyes seemed to follow your every move, and the action itself left you feeling dirty and used, always craving a hot shower when the deed was done. Glancing at the doll once more, you shuddered slightly, disgust gnawing at you. Leaning forward, you quickly pecked the porcelain forehead, retreating as if you were burned. Standing, you wiped your hands on your jeans while turning towards the door, trying to erase the feeling from your mind. “Goodnight, Brahms.” you mumbled over your shoulder, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind you, refusing to spare the doll another thought. If he didn’t want a bedtime story, that was his own fault, rules or not. 

Shutting the door, you padded down the hallway to the guest room, trying to shake the apprehension that had wound your stomach into knots. Practically throwing open the door to the room, you immediately headed towards the bathroom, flipping on the hot water in the shower. Leaving the bathroom, you rummaged through the wooden drawers before grabbing some pajamas to change into. Tucking them under your arm, your feet absentmindedly searched for your slippers before heading back into the bathroom. Steam began to coat the mirror, the air heavy with moisture, and you took a sigh of relief at the sensation. Setting your pajamas on the countertop, you quickly discarded your clothing, kicking off your slippers before stepping in the shower. 

The near-scalding water cascaded down your skin, and you relished in the feeling of the water washing away the stressors of the Heelshire mansion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, feeling peace for the first time in the day. It felt so good, not having to walk on eggshells in the confines of the shower. You almost felt protected by the hazy steam that clouded your vision and billowed towards the ceiling. The comforting warmth allowed you to pretend that you were safe, not in an abandoned manor with a doll that acted very much alive. Quietly, you scrubbed the grime of the day away, skin red from the heat of the water and the rough scraping, but the warmth felt too good not to indulge in. 

Rinsing the suds from your body, you reluctantly turned off the water, almost groaning as the water sputtered to a halt. Reaching around the shower curtain, you blindly searched for a towel, clawing at the air. Fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you pulled the towel into the shower, wrapping the fabric tightly around your body before pushing the shower curtain aside,  metallic creaking filling the air. Stepping onto the tiled floor, goosebumps prickled your skin as the heat of the shower faded, your bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor. The hairs on the back of your neck stood suddenly, and your spine straightened. Turning slightly, something caught your eye as you approached the mirror to grab your pajamas. 

Steam continued to coat the surface of the mirror, the glass fogged up everywhere but the middle, where it was perfectly clear, your shocked expression staring back at you– as if someone, something wiped away the condensation. Your heart dropped in your chest as the steam began to clear, revealing faint but telltale words on the mirror’s surface, water dripping around the letters.

 BREAK A RULE, PAY THE PRICE. 

Your blood turned to ice, fingers trembling as they clutched the towel around your shivering form. Your mouth gaped, a scream clawing out of your throat as you stumbled backwards, eyes trained on the words. The letters dripped as the steam evaporated, the message seemingly etched into place. This couldn’t be real. This was just a horrible nightmare. 

Fear stabbed into your heart, and you whirled around the small bathroom, looking for any possible explanation. Your gaze jolted to the door, lock still intact and door secure. You were the only one who had been in the bathroom, yet the words on the mirror were all too real to ignore. Break a rule… you squeezed your eyes shut, a sob wracking your chest. The bedtime story and the thump on the wall. The flickering lights, the tapping on the floorboards, it was all part of the fucked up game that Brahms was playing, and you were losing. “I… I’m sorry.” Your lip quivered as you apologized, voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the drying mirror, the disappearing words demanding your submission. 

The sink pipes groaned suddenly, pulling you from your trance. The wall shuddered, pipes screeching under an unknown pressure and causing the mirror to rattle violently. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled backwards, tripping over the bathmat and crumbling onto the tiled floor. “I’m sorry! It… It won’t happen again, I promise.” You babbled, hiccuping as tears rolled down your cheeks in fat globs. The rumbling stopped abruptly, your sniffles being the only noise in the bathroom. Lifting your head up, you shakily stood, knees weak and trembling. “...Hello?” You called out, voice strained and hoarse. No answer. 

The silence was deafening, your breaths coming out in shallow huffs as the adrenaline died down. Gripping the sink, you hoisted yourself up the rest of the way, fingers digging into the bowl. Someone– something was in the house with you. Bile rose in your throat at the thought, and your fingers gripped the bathroom door handle, cautiously peeking the door open, heart in your throat. Pitch black stared back at you, seeming to swallow you up. Blindly stepping forward, you clutched your towel with one hand, feeling around the room with the other. “...Hello?” You pressed again, straining your ears for any movement or sound. Nothing. 

Finding the door to your bedroom, you pushed it open, feet planted against the hardwood of the hallway. Tracing the wall with your hand, you braved onwards, every hair on your skin standing on edge. Your foot almost caught the runner carpet in the hallway, and you struggled to balance yourself. The house was silent, seeming to hold its breath with you as you reached Brahms’ room, any creaks or groans absent. Practically bursting through the door, you flicked on the light, relieved to find Brahms still tucked into bed. Scooping Brahms into your arms, you quickly retreated back to your room, clutching the doll as if it were a lifeline. 

Slamming your door shut, you immediately locked it, silently letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Throwing the covers open, you tucked Brahms into your bed, looking for any semblance of comfort as you turned back to the bathroom. Shedding your towel, you quickly hung it up before reaching for your pajamas, grabbing air. You froze, glancing at the counter. The black stack of clothes that was your pajamas was missing, nothing but countertop space staring back at you. You whipped around, quickly looking for anything else out of place as you darted towards your drawers, fingers fumbling to grab another set of pajamas. 

Quickly sliding the material onto your body, you pressed your palms into your temples, trying to slow your breathing. You didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. Creeping back into the bathroom once more, your gaze met the mirror, begging for the words to be gone. When your wish wasn’t granted, you sighed in frustration, tears filling your vision. You turned to flick off the light when a smudge caught your attention. Squinting your eyes, you looked closer at the mirror. There, pressed against the bottom right of the mirror’s surface, was a handprint. 

—

Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor, illuminating specks of dust and grime. Forcing your bloodshot eyes open, you tried to blink the tiredness away. You hadn’t slept well, if you could even say you slept at all. You were terrified, any semblance of a noise causing you to jolt awake with Brahms clutched like a vice in your grip. You had hoped that bringing the doll with you would have provided a form of comfort or safety, but his cold porcelain form dug into yours throughout the night and gave you nothing but a sore side. Nevertheless, you watched the doll like a hawk, afraid to let him out of your sight and possibly break another rule. 

With a halfhearted sigh, you pulled yourself from the tangle of sheets on your bed, reaching to grab Brahms from his seated position on a pillow. In the dim sunlight, his painted eyes lifelessly stared forward, causing a shiver to waft down your spine. Shaking off the nerves, you picked the doll up before heading to his room to get him dressed for the day. He’s just a doll, he’s just a doll, he’s just a doll. The mantra repeated in your head like a broken record, but there was no solace within the words. If Brahms was just a doll, there were much darker demons at play, and you prayed you wouldn’t insight their wrath. Either way, today was a new day, and the morning routine waited for no one. The doll had needs, after all.

Trying to keep the normalcy of the daily routine, dressing Brahms was first and foremost. Setting the doll on his bed, you rummaged through his lengthy wardrobe in order to find a suitable outfit. Settling on a tweed jacket and slacks, you quickly dressed Brahms, fastening brown loafers onto his glass feet before carrying him into your room and dressing yourself. Slipping on a pair of jeans and cable knit sweater, you moved Brahms and his “dirty” clothes downstairs to the kitchen. Throwing the clothes in the hamper, you sat Brahms at his miniature chair next to the marble island, throwing your hair up in a ponytail. Grabbing a kettle, the pipes groaned as you filled the pot with water, the sound causing you to grimace at the memory of last night. 

Putting the kettle on the stove for tea, you continued to move around the kitchen, wiping counters as the tea boiled. The rules– although simple, were very clear, everything in the manor needed to be kept tidy and organized. You had learned the importance of cleanliness the hard way through the first week of your stay, and avoiding consequences was at the top of your to-do list these days. Wiping at the counters, you found your mind wandering to the handprint on the mirror. The sight alone had left your stomach tied in knots for hours, yet something about it seemed… off. It had to have been yours, right? Maybe you were leaning against the shower earlier in the day when doing your skincare, or bumped into it on your way into the shower. That made logical sense, didn’t it? No matter how many times you ran through scenarios, the unease lingered, tightening around your throat like a vice. 

The screeching of the tea kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rushed to turn off the stove. Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you leaned against the island, staring warily at the doll, whose gaze never left your own. Drumming your fingers on the teacup, you sipped at the bitter liquid eagerly, trying to unwind the bundle of nerves in your stomach. After a full cup of tea with no relief, you decided it was a lost cause, preferring to take your chances cleaning the manor instead. Hefting the doll out of the chair and into your arms, you padded over to the study, the unorganized clutter immediately reaching your gaze. Setting Brahms back in his study chair, you went to work, dusting shelves, reorganizing bookcases, wiping down the fireplace, cleaning the windows, and then some. 

As you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, consistently looking over your shoulder to stare at the unmoving doll in anticipation that something, anything would happen. Yet, nothing. Wiping your hands clean, you glanced around the study once more, the space much more tidy compared to last night. Nodding triumphantly, you moved around the first floor, dragging Brahms as you went to clean anything that was deemed out of place or unnecessary clutter. Once everything was in working order, you began the trek up the all too familiar flight of stairs in the foyer, taking a quick moment to polish the nameplate of the painting as you went. 

Stepping into your room, you swept the floor, picking up dust and grime as Brahms watched you from your bed, silent as ever. After a quick dusting and window cleaning, your room practically gleamed in the sunlight. Next, the bathroom. You turned towards the room, dread creeping up your throat again. You had refused to go into the bathroom since discovering the cryptic message and handprint, too terrified to confront any more ghosts or experience any more hauntings. Now that morning had come, a sense of bravery had fallen upon you, the daylight bringing a sense of security with it. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and pushed into the room. 

The damp smell of soap immediately hit your nostrils, the air hanging heavy with moisture from the night before. The mirror was still foggy, condensation dripping from the reflective surface, the words barely legible in the dim light. Your brows furrowed, confusion wracking your form– it shouldn’t be this humid in here. The bathroom had time to air out all night. Grabbing a microfiber cloth and Windex, you pushed up on your tiptoes, leaning over the sink to wipe away at the mirror. As you wiped away the mist, something caught your eye. A streak of grime– or dirt?– was stuck to the mirror. Wiping harder, the mark appeared unfazed– as if the streak was inside the mirror. 

Trepidation churned in your gut, and you forced yourself to continue wiping the surface. Maybe the mirror was damaged in a way that you hadn’t noticed before, or it was poorly made. Yet, your stomach twisted every time you ran the cloth over the streak. Huffing in frustration, you threw the cloth into the sink, elbow accidentally slamming against the mirror. Upon the harsher contact, the mirror vibrated, a hollow rumble escaping the surface– just like last night. Rubbing your slightly injured funny-bone, you traced the surface of the mirror again, fingers dusting over the mysterious streak once more. Pushing against the material again, the mirror shifted, not much, but slightly giving in against the tiled wall as if it wasn’t hung properly. 

Worried you broke the mirror, your fingers pressed against the edge of the surface, causing the whole thing to wobble slightly under your touch. Your breath hitched, curiosity racking your brain as you ran your fingers along the edge of the mirror, feeling for any gaps between the wall and the mirror that was causing the noise. Tracing the bottom right corner, thumb touching the smudged handprint, your nail snagged something. Feeling blindly for the snag, it dawned on you that there was something– a latch hidden between the mirror and the wall. Without thinking, you pressed down on the latch, heart pounding in your ears. 

Immediately, a faint click sounded out against the bathroom, the mirror sliding towards you slightly, revealing a slight crack of darkness behind it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled at the mirror, the hinged surface swinging towards you and revealing a perfectly cut rectangle where the mirror sat at the wall. A damp smell invaded your nostrils, any leftover moisture from your late-night shower pouring into your bathroom, causing you to gag at the smell. Gripping the mirror, you looked at the inside of the mirror, finding the smudge of dirt glaring back at you. Horror gripped your chest. It wasn’t just a mirror, it was a one-way mirror. Gazing through the inside, you could clearly make out the tiled wall of the bathroom, clear as day. As you swung the mirror from hand to hand, the traces of lettering caught your attention. 

Written on the inside of the mirror was your cryptic message, and before you knew it you dipped your finger in the letter “B”, a wet material coating your index finger. Bringing your finger to your nose, you could faintly smell oil. Your brain seemed to short circuit at the realization. There wasn’t a ghost boy haunting you, there was a very terrifying, very real person writing you messages in the mirror, knowing that the condensation on your side would reveal their haunting warning. Your lip quivered at the thought. You were staring at a door, a door leading to something. 

Despite any semblance of your conscious screaming at you to stop, you pulled the mirror fully open, the glass tapping the wall to your left. The gaping hole in the wall was filled with dust, and the stale air immediately invaded your senses, feeling heavy and suffocating. The space behind the mirror was small and narrow, but was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Through the lighting of the bathroom, you could barely make out the faint outline of a passageway, the wooden beams acting as the support structure of the house fading into pitch black. 

Your chin trembled, fingers fumbling as you dug your phone from your back pocket, turning on the flashlight. A thin stream of light illuminated the cavern, the passageway going straight then sharply turning left. You swallowed thickly, biting your cheek as you turned towards your room. Hurriedly putting on a pair of boots from the closet, you apprehensively approached the gaping hole in the wall. Shutting the toilet seat, you stood on top of the toilet, turning your body over the sink as you reached into the passageway. Gripping onto a wooden support beam, you pulled yourself forward, inching over the sink and plunging further into darkness. Crawling into the small space, you glanced backwards, your feet dangling from the opening into the sink. 

Tucking your arms into your body, you let the phone’s flashlight guide the way, army crawling through the dirt until the cavern opened up, the walls thinning and ceiling expanding upwards. Immediately, you shifted uncomfortably until you were standing, crouching slightly. Looking back on the way you came, you noticed a wrapper on the dirt floor, the plastic pushed haphazardly to the side by your clumsy crawling. Someone had been here– recently. You inhaled sharply at the thought, heart twisting in your chest, but you pushed onwards, determined to solve the mystery that plagued you for weeks. 

As you turned, everything seemed to click into place. Someone had been watching you. Someone in the walls. A click made you jolt, and you realized the mirror had shut again, leaving you in unfamiliar territory. You stood, rooted in place, phone shaking in your hand as you tried to slow your breathing. Realizing there was no way to go but forward, you trembled slightly, bile threatening to rise in your throat. The handprint. The rules. The noises. The lights. Everything– it all clicked into place with a terrifying realization. You weren’t alone. Ever since you stepped foot in the manor, you had never been alone. “Just a quick look…” You reasoned with yourself, pushing forward. 

The passageway seemed never-ending, twisting and turning around the countless rooms in the manor. The wooden beams surrounding you were almost impossible to maneuver around, causing you to walk hunched over to avoid banging your head against the low ceilings. The wooden planks creaked beneath your feet, and you cringed at any sudden movement you made. Within the tight confines of the passageway, every sound felt amplified– your breath, the rustle of your clothes, your steps. The twists and turns of the passageway left you at many forks, leaving you to blindly choose a direction with nothing but instinct to guide you. 

The deeper you went into the passageway, the more unnerved you became. It felt as if you were crawling into the belly of the beast, and a part of you was terrified with what you would find. You passed an immeasurable amount of peepholes drilled into the wall, each hole giving a clear view of the room attached to it. Your bedroom. The study. The kitchen. A chill creeped up your spine as you realized how every single moment you experienced in the manor had been on display, every movement watched by another. You swallowed thickly at the thought. 

Braving onwards, it felt like a lifetime had passed within the passageways, with you maneuvering against the nooks and crannies of the house. Suddenly, the passageway opened up, housing an actual room in a space you could only imagine was the attic. An old bed frame was pushed to the far side of the wall, adorned with a ragged mattress and mismatched blankets. Food containers, papers, books, and other odds and ends covered almost every surface of the room. A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, the bulb swaying slightly in the drafty air. Papers were plastered to the wall, covered in sketches and pictures. You had stumbled upon your stalker’s hiding place. Lip quivering, you approached the wall, looking at the pictures under the light of your phone. 

They were sketches of you. Drawings in various stages of completion of you doing random tasks, some with the doll, some alone. Your nostrils flared at a sketch of you in the shower, suds caressing your skin under a stream of water. Another showed you sleeping, the viewpoint being so close you were sure they were in your bedroom with you to sketch it. Your chest tightened at the sheer amount of sketches, and you backed away subconsciously. Your knee hit the edge of the metallic bed frame, causing your attention to divert to the unmade bed in the corner of the room. Your eyes snaked across the multitude of blankets before reaching the crevice of the bed that met the wall. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other, your stolen pajamas from the night before pulled over them as a crude form of you. Crumpled up tissues dotted the edge of the bed and the floor, stomach churning violently as the reality of the situation set in. 

Your breathing hitched, and for a moment, you were sure you were going to faint. Your stalker wasn’t just watching you. He was controlling the house– controlling you, by making you believe that the doll was real. The rules you were so keen on following weren’t about the doll at all. They were about you. The realization left you gasping for air, the atmosphere of the room becoming much too cramped for your liking. Your breath came out in strangled huffs, and every part of you screamed to run, but you felt bolted in place. Your legs felt like jelly, and you struggled to tear your gaze away from those godforsaken pajamas and go back the way you came. 

Finally ripping yourself away from your trance, you turned towards the opening, flashlight trembling as you stopped dead in your tracks. Standing no more than a few feet in front of you was a man, his imposing form towering over you as he slouched against the walls. Silently watching you, his head cocked to the side, catching the light of your phone. Your heart nearly stopped as the light illuminated a porcelain mask, all too familiar to the very doll you were employed to take care of. Your world came crashing down, each brutal piece falling into place to show you the true, horrifying reality. He was here; the whole time, terrorizing the manor and making your life a living hell. Brahms Heelshire. 

You felt as if you were punched in the face, mouth parted in shock as you simply gaped at the man before you. Clearly not expecting you, Brahms stood with a tupperware in his hands, half eaten leftovers you made clearly forgotten. For a moment, neither of you moved. The atmosphere was impossibly heavy with tension, weighing down on you so strongly you could cut the air with a knife. Your chin trembled, voice catching in your throat as you gaped like a deer caught in headlights. “(Y/n)?” A childlike voice escaped the hulking male in front of you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. The figure in front of you was nothing like the childish doll hidden away inside the manor, he was a man– a towering, cardinal force of nature that made your blood run cold. 

Brahms took a step forward, snapping you out of your shock induced state. Through the holes in the mask, you caught his eyes– brown so dark it looked black stared back at you, a curious but predatory look in them. You swallowed thickly, nodding quickly to acknowledge the man. He hummed in approval, the noise much deeper than the voice let on, sending a shiver down your spine at the almost primal sound. You shuffled backwards, boots dragging across the floorboards, a creak splitting through the silence. Brahms froze, eyes narrowing, hands too large for comfort tightening into fists. You could hear a pin drop in the silence, the weight of his gaze alone making your head swim. 

“You… you broke the rules…” The voice chided you, cracking down at least an octave at the statement, the childlike pretense twisting into something much colder, sharper. He cocked his head again, eyeing you darkly. “-Now, you pay the price.” A shudder tore through you, his words echoing the haunting message on the mirror the night before. The mantra pounded in your skull, gaze flying to the wall of sketches before landing on the rustled pajamas. Break a rule, pay the price. The realization slammed into you just as your body reacted, a burst of movement tearing through you. Heels skittering across the floor from the force, you turned, the noise echoing through the room like a gunshot. You jolted, legs pumping as you sprinted to an opening in the wall. 

Brahms, startled by your sudden attempt at escape, took a step forward, hand clawing at your hair as you whipped past him. “Get back here!” He bellowed, the childish facade shattering as his rough, deep voice rattled your bones. Ducking into the passageway, you narrowly missed crashing into the ceiling, phone slipping from your hand in the chaos. The space was suffocating, illuminated only by the slivers of light pouring through the peepholes in the wall.  The passageway rattled behind you, a furious Brahms expertly navigating the tunnels, too close for comfort. You were in his territory now, and he was never going to let you escape. 

A sob clawed its way through your throat as you sharply turned right, trying to increase the distance between you and your attacker. Fumbling down another miniature flight of stairs, your sweater caught momentarily on a nail, causing you to lose precious seconds tearing yourself free. You could practically feel Brahms behind you, hot on your heels and closing in for the kill. Adrenaline pushed you forward, and a fork in the road quickly met your gaze. Which way? Not missing a beat, you turned left, almost tripping down the passageway’s sharp decline. The stale air seemed cooler as you pushed onwards, and you prayed that the tunnel was leading towards the basement. If you could reach the basement, you would be able to slip through one of the windows or hide among the debris until you could formulate a better plan. 

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the collapsed wall you almost ran into full force. Over the years, the beams had rotted away, folding in on itself and leaving small gaps in between the rubble. Panic seized you like a vice, heart beating so loudly that you were certain Brahms could hear it. Digging your nails into the wall, you threw yourself against the deteriorating beams, trying to open up a gap large enough for you to crawl through. A rustle of clothing sounded behind you, a spike of terror seizing your chest. Brahms was close– too close, as if he was about to reach out and grab you. Throwing your full weight against the beams, a sob tore through your throat and despair settling in the pit of your stomach. With a crack, one of the beams shifted, revealing a thin gap just wide enough for you to squeeze through. An unearthly growl sounded out behind you, practically right at your heels, and before you knew it, you surged forward through the gap, bracing for the impact against the cold floor. 

The impact never came. Instead, pain exploded throughout your midriff as the beam fell, caving in on its own weight and crushing you in place.The air was knocked from your lungs, and you sputtered for air, trying to weasel your way through the gap, expletives flying from your mouth. You were pinned in place, the beams above collapsing in at a bruising force, and your lower ribs burned as if you were stabbed. Breaths coming out in shallow, pained huffs, you quickly realized your situation. You were injured, trapped, and exposed. Stomach crushed painfully in between the beams, your hips knocked against the beam stubbornly, too large to un-wedge yourself from your position, no matter how hard you barred down and pushed. A breathless chuckle escaped from somewhere behind the wall– chillingly amused. 

Your vision was useless against him, vision blocked by the very beams pinning you in place. Craning your neck, your hearing sharpened as blood roared in your ears. You could hear him– feet shuffling against the dirt floor as he approached you slowly, predatory and deadly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stiffened, back scraping painfully against the wood, splinters biting into your skin. Icy fingers brushed against your back, and you physically jolted at the sensation. You cursed your sweater, its betrayal evident as it bunched around your shoulders from the chaos.  A deep hum sounded out behind you, the graze of his fingers much more deliberate as they curled along your lower spine, seemingly savoring your warmth. 

“Caught you…” Brahms whispered, eerily calm in a way that made your head spin. The passageway was catastrophic, walls closing in as your senses heightened, hyper-aware of the precarious situation. Jagged edges dug into your ribs, each breath you took causing a white-hot pain to shoot to your sides. Brahms’ blunt nails scraped against your back, more persistent, hungry. Blind panic seized you, feet kicking blindly as you fought against the beams, praying for something to give way. A hand roughly grabbed an ankle, squeezing so tightly you were certain he would leave bruises. You froze, and the hostile grip eased slightly. “Fight all you want…” He growled lowly, voice dropping. “–you aren’t going anywhere.”

Tears fell at that, and you smacked a hand over your mouth to silence your sobs, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Brahms… I-... I’m sorry.” You sputtered out, voice shaking as you begged for mercy. The rules were supposed to be your saving grace, and now that they had been broken, nothing would be able to rescue you now. Dropping your leg, Brahms clicked his tongue, weighing your apology while shuffling forward. He was so close, you could practically feel his breath on your back as he triumphantly stood over you. His icy touch returned, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine exploringly. You inhaled sharply, stomach clenching as he caressed the sensitive skin in an almost endearing manner. His fingers faltered slightly, palm spread over the bottom of your back, pushing you down. 

Immediately, you arched, the pressure sending ripples of pain in your ribs that you struggled to alleviate. A heavy sigh rang in your ears, and realization stabbed into you like a knife. He was experimenting; a man hidden away from society and living in complete isolation for decades and never experiencing human touch, human connection. But he was still a man, a man with wants… with needs. Your heart caught in your throat as his palm retreated suddenly, opting to trace the curve of your waist almost shyly, curiosity evident in the slow, inexperienced touches. Calloused fingers wavered over the hem of your jeans, feeling your softness. The sensation sent you into a squirming mess, trying to push away from the ticklish movements. 

Brahms pushed onwards, fingers shaking from what you could only imagine was excitement as he dipped below your jeans, tapping your hip bones.  Large hands stuffed beneath the denim, he gripped your hips sharply, a startled yelp escaping your lips. He shuffled even closer, hips draped over your clothed ass, almost leaning into the wall, hungry for the warmth radiating from your skin. You squirmed immediately, the weight of his eye scalding as his touches became more frantic. A hand surged around your front, toying with the button on your jeans, and you inhaled sharply. Break a rule, pay the price. 

The button popped beneath his fingers, zipper straining as it was practically yanked downwards. “Brahms-” you pleaded, boots scraping against the dirt as you braced yourself against the wall. Brahms huffed, seeming to enjoy the way you called his name, any warning or emotion attached to it forgotten. Your jeans were unceremoniously pulled downwards, bunching around your knees, excited hands drawn to the exposed skin like a moth to a flame. Brahms’ patience quickly faded as he pressed forwards, poking and prodding your thighs with his fingers. “So… soft.” a broken murmur came from behind the wall, Brahms enchanted by the way your skin felt beneath his fingers, better than any silk or velvet in the manor. 

You shuddered at his words, the feeling of his fingers dancing along your skin sending a stroke of fire to your stomach. Gone were the gentle, exploring brushes, replaced with something much rougher. Brahms mapped your legs with his hands, yanking your boots from your feet and leaving your lower half bare, spare your cotton panties. Any exposed surface was immediately touched, hands encircling your much smaller ankles, scraping along your calves, or gripping your hips. A sharp smack to your ass left your head spinning, a startled gasp escaping you. Brahms was falling fast, resolve shattered at the promise of the new, shiny toy sprawled in front of him, hands kneading your ass while his hips absentmindedly ground against you. 

You jolted sharply as the outline of Brahm’s cock pressed into your upper thigh, the excited nature of the male behind you only amplifying once he discovered how good it felt brushing against your rear. An animalistic growl cut through the air, hips snapping against yours momentarily before your panties were grabbed tightly, the fabric straining against your skin before being torn to shreds, skin raw from the force. “Brahms!” You tried to chide, knowing it was futile. It was almost laughable trying to control the doll version of Brahms, so the very primal, very real Brahms was out of the question. 

At first, there was nothing. You could faintly make out his heavy breathing, and you cowered under the apparent gaze that was fixated on your newly exposed skin. If this had been any other situation, you would have been flustered, embarrassment coating your skin at the rough nature of your partner, but now you only felt terrified anticipation. A lone finger drifted from your hip bone to your front, the touch surprisingly soft as it trailed down your skin, causing your thighs to clench at the feeling. Scraping down your pubic bone, the finger brushed against your pussy, dipping within your folds. Shame burst through you as he pulled your folds apart, swiping at slick collecting between your thighs. You were aroused, your body betraying you from his soft touches as his finger experimented against your skin.

Brahms grunted, seemingly pleased, instinct pushing him onwards, another finger joining his endeavor, spreading you apart. The cool air hit your core at that, and you tensed, completely exposed and at his mercy. Almost lazily, his finger trailed along your slit, coated in your juices, mapping your folds to memory as you squirmed against his touch. A knuckle brushed your clit, and your heart almost stopped, stomach clenching at the sudden touch. A whimper escaped you, and Brahms paused at the noise, curious. His fingers withdrew from your core, shuffling ensuing as you strained to hear something, anything. A droplet of something wet hit your rear, and you jolted. He was drooling, mask abandoned as he stared down at you, the heat of his gaze sending sparks down your spine. 

Abruptly, a finger wedged between your thighs, pushing inside of you. You cried out, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his digit, hands clawing at the dirt beneath you. Sinking inwards, he twirled his finger, flesh scraping against your gummy walls, much larger than your own fingers. The finger stilled, another quickly pushing in to relish in your warmth, the stretch uncomfortably addicting as he rocked his fingers within you. You pressed your foreheard against the dirt, heavy pants escaping you as he fucked you with his fingers, chasing the feeling of you clenching around him. The air felt heavy, tension crackling between you and your captor as you fell apart on his fingers, shame fading away as something much more primal began to take root. 

Brahms, addicted with the feeling of your soft walls, picked up pace, and you whimpered at the force. A shuddered sigh escaped the male behind you, getting lost in the image of his fingers sinking within you, a lewd squelch filling the air as his fingers retreated from your core. His hips ground against your upper thigh, and your lip quivered at the feeling of his clothed cock rutting against your skin. His fingers scissored within you, and a broken moan tore within you. This was so wrong, so perverted, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the feeling, a wave of warmth tearing through you. Sweat beaded your hairline, and you clamped your jaw shut to try and silence the noises threatening to spill from your lips. 

Brahms however, always observant, noticed the slip immediately, no amount of stifling able to keep your sounds away from him. Although quiet, the moan rattled throughout the passageway, shattering any sense of resolve or patience that was left. You wanted it, you liked what he was doing to you, and that was all the reinforcement he needed, whether you knew it or not. Your skin felt as if you were on fire, the pain in your ribs mixing with the pleasure in a dangerous concoction that left you reeling. Your nails dug into the dirt, coating your fingertips as tears streamed down your cheeks, any coherent thought melting away as you felt your orgasm building within you, muscles tightening. The hand not driving into you traced along your lower back once more, the soft touches contrasting the rough thrusts of his fingers so sinfully your eyes rolled. 

You were so close, body quickly submitting to the pleasure that rocked your body, head spinning as he brushed your clit once more. Your hips rolled slightly, eager to match the pace, oblivious to the devious grin sported on the other side of the wall. Brows furrowed, your mind short circuited, chasing the feeling as you silently begged, praying to get your release. Brahms’s fingers tore from you so quickly it hurt, orgasm halted right before you hit the precipice. Your jaw clamped down, biting into your cheek so roughly you drew blood, frustration wracking your body. Your legs shook, emptiness consuming you as you squirmed against the wall, desperately trying to reach your high. 

So caught up in your denial, you barely registered the shuffling of clothes, ears ringing as your heartbeat pounded in your head. A hand gripped your hip suddenly, nails digging into your skin as Brahm’s hips met your ass. Your eyes widened, the feeling of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine. Before you could even think, Brahms nestled in between your legs, clumsily aligning to your core and entering you in one, quick thrust. A scream tore from your throat at the intrusion, and you steeled yourself against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Brahms’ cock delved into you without any chance of stopping. 

Aching, you faltered, clenching blindly around Brahms as he quickly bottomed out, scraping against your walls in ways that made his fingers seem like child’s play. He was so big, filling you so full you could feel him in your stomach, his bruising force shoving you further into the wall, your ribs screaming in pain. Bracing yourself against the dirt, you helplessly met his ruthless thrusts, choked moans spewing from your throat. It hurt so good, the uncomfortable stretch melting away with every thrust, the only thing grounding you in place being his hands digging into your flesh. He fucked into you, chasing the sensation of your snug walls, heavy groans and pants echoing around the passageway. 

You were falling fast, lost in the feeling of his cock pushing into you so forcefully you felt as if he were rearranging your insides, so consumed with nothing else but him. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, pleasure racking through you so violently your toes curled into the dirt. Your whole body tensed, clenching down on Brahms so hard you were sure you were squeezing him to death. Static heat prickled against your skin, electricity flowing through your limbs as you felt like you were going to burst. You babbled nonsense, chanting into the stale air as you felt your orgasm approaching, mind moving a million miles a minute and ready to crash down at a bruising force. Brahms continued his onslaught, refusing to let up as he delved into you, chasing the sensation of you wrapped sinfully around his cock. Your back scraped against the wood as he thrusted into you, head bobbing against the dirt as you took him with everything you had, drool dripping down your chin. 

It was too much, everything was too hot, too fast. The grip on your hips never relented, pulling you towards him as if you were a fucktoy, and you weakly met his thrusts. Arching your back, you ignored the burning sensation in your ribs, caught up in the addictive nature of Brahms’ cock drilling into you, ruining you for all others. His cockhead snapped against your cervix, pain blossoming within you, and you sucked on your lips for comfort. Brahms was like an animal, so caught up in the way you sucked him in that nothing else could ever compare to. Your eyes rolled as he angled his hips upward, cock hammering into your spongy walls, the new position making your stomach roll. 

Your fingers dug into the dirt so hard a nail snapped from the pleasure, and you came. Your orgasm crashed into you, body spasming as you screamed, clinging to the dirt like a lifeline. Brahms faltered at your visceral reaction, hips rutting against yours as you finished, fucking you through your brutal orgasm. The world tilted, vision dotted with black as you struggled to breathe, consumed with the release of pressure within you. Brahms growled, pulling your hips flush against his, pace wavering as you clenched down on him like a lifeline. The sound of his cock leaving you in a squelching, moaning mess bounced lewdly along the walls, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. Stamina evaporating, Brahms collapsed on top of you, head pressed against the wood as he pushed himself so deep you were sure you were suffocating. Thick ropes of cum coated your insides, filling you to the brim as you weakly took his final thrusts, Brahms heaving as he stilled within you. 

The air was heavy, the smell of sex coating your sweaty body as you laid limply in the dirt, cable knit sweater scraping against your raw skin. Brahms retreated from you slowly, a hiss of pain escaping you as emptiness consumed you. Your legs spasmed, twitching from the force of his thrusts as you tried to catch your breath. Your ribs throbbed, the ache making it hard to breathe. Your limbs felt weak and heavy, adrenaline leaving your body as you trembled from the aftermath of your climax. Somewhere behind you, Brahms shifted, feet scraping against the dirt, a new wave of anxiety coursing through you.

The scratchy fabric of your jeans dragged against your legs as he tugged them back into place, movements rough and quick. You winced, powerless to stop his antics, but relieved to be clothed once more. With a sudden grunt of effort, the crushing weight on your ribs eased. You blinked, confused as the beam pining you in place was hoisted into the air. The opening was wide enough for you to crawl through, and hope surged through your limbs. You wriggled forward, using the little strength you could muster to drag through the rubble. Before you could crawl more than an inch, however, a strong hand gripped your sweater, yanking you backwards with a brutal force. 

You hit the ground, pain shooting through you as you landed in a crumpled heap onto the dirt floor. The beams came crashing down, a cloud of dust enveloping you, sealing the passageway you had fought so desperately hard to escape through. You stared at the crude wall of wood and stone– your escape route, gone. Brahms stood a few feet in front of you, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. You swallowed thickly, the taste of dust and dirt coating your tongue as you gaped at your captor, mask tightly bound against his face once more. Dazed, you fumbled with your boots, slipping on the uneven ground as a defeated, tired sigh escaped your lips. 

Your gaze shifted to Brahms, who tilted his head, catching you in his line of sight. His eyes bore into you, making your stomach churn, your skin flushing at the memory of his hands on you just moments before. Wordlessly, Brahms stalked over to your form, towering over you as you pressed further against the floor. Before you could react, a rough hand grabbed at your arm, pulling you up with unnerving ease. You stumbled, knees weak and body sore, a low chuckle escaping his lips, muffled by the mask.  A hand roughly gripped your jaw, forcing your face upwards to meet his eyes. Your breathing hitched at the proximity, his strength evident in the bruising grip. The cool porcelain of his mask brushed against your damp forehead as he leaned closer, causing you to shiver. “New rule…” He rumbled, voice low with a newfound sense of authority. His grip tightened, your teeth knocking together painfully as you gaped into the void of his eyes.

“– I kiss goodnight.”

—

A/N: This definitely took longer than expected... I will try to post more consistently now that my schedule is more consistent! If you have any requests or suggestions please message me! Enjoy ;)

[ohisms]

↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated .     (  a  collection  of  various  settings  meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts .   )

001.   the seaside ,  as the sun is setting .

002.   a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003.   a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004.   a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005.   a private jet miles high in the sky .

006.   a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007.   an office building ,  bustling and busy .

008.   the back row of an empty movie theater .

009.   a run - down motel room .

010.   a loud house party on a suburban street .

011.   a university lecture hall during a class .

012.   the rooftop of a very tall building .

013.   a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014.   the back of a wailing ambulance .

015.   the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016.   behind the school’s gymnasium .

017.   a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .

018.   an otherwise empty parking lot .

019.   the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .

020.  the grounds of an empty summer camp .

021.   a large hedge maze ,  easy to get lost in .

022.   a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023.   a spacious ,  light-filled meadow .

024.   an underground illegal fighting club .

025.   an abandoned scrapyard .

026.   a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027.    an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028.   an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029.   an extravagant greenhouse .

030.   the base of a large waterfall .

031.    a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032.   a solemnly quiet hospital room .

033.   the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034.   the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035.   the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036.   a long ,  winding road .

037.   the scene of a violent crime .

038.   a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

039.   a cramped dressing room .

040.   a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041.   the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042.   between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043.   a building abandoned during construction .

044.   a house without power or running water .

045.   a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046.   the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047.    the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048.   fairgrounds during a large event  (or after hours) .

049.   a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050.   a childhood home or bedroom .

+   30  more  setting  prompts :    1 / 3 / 2024

051. the site of a horrible accident .

052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .

053. a home holding horrific memories .

054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .

055. a private hotel room .

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .

058. a lavish , invite - only party .

059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .

060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .

061. the underworld .

062. a dusty , forgotten attic .

063. on the set of a television show or movie .

064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .

065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .

066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .

067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .

068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .

069. a crowded stadium during a football game .

070. the morgue during an identification .

071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .

072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .

073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .

074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .

075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .

076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .

077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .

078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .

079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .

080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. dumbledore, in his usual cryptic fashion, subtly nudges you and gojo toward a rather unconventional solution, leading to a daring trip to the ministry under elaborate disguises. there, amidst secrets better left undisturbed, you uncover truths that should have never been hidden in the first place—though, thankfully, the day isn’t entirely swallowed by impending doom, thanks to an unexpected moment of warmth with dobby.

➵ warnings. abusive family; neglectful family; panic attacks; mentions of vomit; mentions of blood; espionage; mentions of grooming; mentions of death; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 14.9k.

➵ author's note. big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading, loml. taglist now closed. ty for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

"What took you so long?"

His voice comes from somewhere in the dark, even before you make it down the ladder. A low, easy drawl—almost indifferent, except it isn’t. Not really. You can hear it beneath the words, the undercurrent of something just slightly off, something waiting.

Your boots hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breath still uneven as you straighten, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The air here is thick, stale, but not unbearable. It smells like damp earth, like dust settled too long on forgotten stone, like something old, something secret.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

Gojo doesn’t press, but he makes a sound—a quiet, inquisitive hum—as he slips his wand out from the folds of his coat. A flick, a muttered incantation, and the passageway flickers to life, torches along the walls sputtering into a dull orange glow. The light doesn’t do much to make the place any more welcoming. The tunnel stretches long and empty ahead of you, its walls slick with condensation, shadows stretching unnaturally against the uneven stone. It reminds you of Hogwarts’ dungeons—cold, cavernous, like something meant to keep people out.

A shiver prickles up your spine, though the temperature here isn’t particularly freezing. If anything, it’s strangely temperate, a quiet, almost undisturbed kind of chill.

Gojo steps forward, and without thinking, you follow. You don’t know why it’s easier to fall into step beside him than it is to stop and think. Maybe because he moves like he’s been here a thousand times before, like he’s done this enough for it to be muscle memory, like it’s nothing at all.

"You know," he starts, voice echoing faintly in the narrow space, "in third year, my mother didn’t bother signing my Hogsmeade permission form."

The way he says it is almost offhanded, a careless remark, like a fact about the weather. But something about it makes your brow furrow slightly.

"That’s… not nice," you murmur, tilting your head, watching him from the corner of your eye.

Gojo only shrugs, hands tucked into his coat pockets, stride easy, unhurried. "I was fine. Sneaked in a few times with my cloak. Wasn’t too hard."

You blink, glancing at him properly now. "I remember seeing you, though," you say, hesitant, as if trying to recall something just barely out of reach. "You were there, weren’t you?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "But then I left my cloak at home during the winter holidays."

A beat.

You glance at him again. "Then what?"

Gojo exhales, a short, amused sound. "Then I got to spend my first weekend back ruefully watching Shoko and Suguru leave without me, like a complete loser," he says, tilting his head as if recalling the scene with some kind of detached fondness. "Used to sit near the staircase on the third floor a lot. And there’s that statue there, you know—the old witch with the one eye." He pauses, eyes flicking toward you briefly before looking ahead again. "You tap it with your wand, say ‘Dissendium,’ and it opens right up. Leads straight to Honeydukes’ cellar. Funny, isn’t it? How no one ever really explores the sheer mysteriousness of our school?"

There’s something vaguely smug in the way he says it. You roll your eyes, though there’s no real heat to it. "Losers, the entire lot of us, right?" you say dryly.

"Exactly," he says, flashing you a grin. The tunnel seems to stretch endlessly ahead, the faint glow of the torches casting long, wavering shadows against the damp walls. The air is heavier down here, close, but not unpleasantly so. You wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he’s walked this passage alone, how many times he’s disappeared through some secret part of the castle no one ever thought to question.

"And that’s how I found it," he continues after a pause, glancing at you with something bright in his expression, something just slightly triumphant. "The One-Eyed Witch Passageway."

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound barely carrying over the quiet shuffle of your footsteps against the uneven stone. The air is still, thick with the scent of earth and something old.

"Makes our job a hell of a lot easier," you murmur. Gojo laughs, the sound light, easy, threaded through with something unreadable. "It does, doesn’t it?"

But then, a pause. A barely-there hesitation, quick but noticeable, just long enough for you to catch it.

"How was your date with that Zen’in bastard?"

Your brows knit together, a slow, irritated furrow, even before you turn to glance at him. "First of all," you say sharply, "he’s not a bastard."

Gojo tilts his head, entirely unbothered, the dim glow of the torches catching in his white lashes, his mouth already curving in amusement.

"And second of all," you continue, "none of your business."

"Oh, come on," he groans, dragging out the syllables like a petulant child. "I told you about how my first kiss was, didn’t I?"

There’s something deliberately casual in the way he says it, something practiced. You don’t buy it for a second.

"Once," you say flatly, eyeing him with suspicion.

Gojo shrugs, loose and nonchalant, as if it doesn’t matter at all. As if it never did. "I don’t even remember it anymore," he adds, like an afterthought.

Your eyes narrow. "A senior kissing you when you’re in third year isn’t your first kiss," you say, voice suddenly quieter, weightier, sinking beneath the easy flow of conversation like a stone dropping into still water.

Gojo doesn’t look at you right away.

The tunnel seems darker now, the shadows stretching longer, the air thicker.

"It’s called grooming," you finish.

He shrugs, easy and careless, as if brushing off dust. "At least I got bragging rights."

You make a face, gagging lightly. "You’re insufferable."

Gojo clicks his tongue, shaking his head with the exaggerated disappointment of someone appraising a particularly dull painting. "And you’re a bore," he counters. "She was beautiful, I’ll have you know. Be happy I’m a gentleman and not giving you details."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I already know the details, you twat."

His head tilts slightly at that, like he’s waiting for you to elaborate.

"You gave me her figure details in inches, Gojo," you remind him, voice flat, unimpressed. "It was disgustingly pathetic how you knew her hips were thirty-nine inches wide."

His grin is slow, all teeth, entirely unapologetic. "Ah," he muses. "Good times."

“Ew,” you murmur under your breath as you and Gojo near the staircase at the end of the tunnel, your voice barely more than a whisper against the stone walls. The air here is thick, cool, carrying the scent of the damp earth. The flickering torchlights do little to soften the eerie stillness, the way shadows stretch long and lean against the uneven surfaces.

“Third floor, then?” you ask, your voice steady despite the unease settling in your ribs. “Near the courtyard?”

“Yes,” Gojo nods, already a step ahead of you. His voice is quieter now, more measured. “I suggest we go through the dungeons once we’re out. Just to be safe. Everyone’s at Hogsmeade anyway, except for the first and second years.”

You hum in agreement, keeping your steps light as you follow him up the spiral stairs. Dust swirls in the dim light as your boots press into the old stone, the air growing warmer the higher you climb. You blink, suddenly remembering something.

“Did you get a chance to look over my questions on that sheet?”

Gojo makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between hesitation and acknowledgment. “Uh, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. He glances over his shoulder at you. “Wait a minute. Let’s not talk about this here.”

You nod, tucking the thought away for later.

He reaches for the concealed exit, pushing it open with practiced ease. And then, you slam into his back. Hard.

“Satoru, what the hell is your—” you start, irritation lacing your voice, but then you see it.

Oh.

Oh.

Professor Dumbledore stands before you, waiting, as if he has been expecting the two of you all along. His presence fills the corridor, not just because of his stature, but because of something else, something harder to name—an awareness, a knowing. His long robes, a shade of deep, muted grey, shimmer faintly under the torchlight, the silver embroidery along the hem and cuffs glinting with each subtle movement. His half-moon spectacles catch the dim glow, reflecting it, making his eyes—already so bright—twinkle with something unreadable.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gojo. Ms. [L/N],” he greets, voice warm, amused. The kind of amusement that feels layered, veiled, never quite revealing its source.

You swallow, stepping out fully from the passageway as the entrance seals behind you, the statue shifting back into place with a low, echoing groan. Your hands curl into your sleeves, an old habit, as you bow your head slightly. You don’t know why. The chill creeping up your spine tells you it’s better not to hold his gaze for too long.

“Worry not, Ms. [L/N], I won’t reprimand you,” Dumbledore says, his voice lilting as if this is all part of some long, elaborate joke only he is in on. And then, his attention shifts.

To Gojo. There’s a subtle change in the air. It is not unkind, but it is heavier, more deliberate.

“I received a letter from your father this morning,” Dumbledore continues, watching him carefully. “He wanted to know when your Auror applications will be going through. He says he wants them submitted a year early.”

You see it immediately—the way Gojo’s jaw tightens, the way his fingers curl into his palms. His skin, already pale, turns ghostly white before it flushes red at his knuckles, his nails pressing hard into his own skin.

It is silent. Painfully so.

Then, finally, Gojo exhales, measured and slow, like he’s forcing the tension out of himself before it can consume him.

“Sir,” he starts, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I was hoping… if you could, that is… potentially delay my applications until next year.”

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, as if seeing through to something neither you nor Gojo can quite name.

“You don’t wish to graduate early, like your father expects,” the Headmaster states, rather than asks.

Gojo says nothing. Dumbledore nods, just once, slow and deliberate. “I’ll take care of it. Worry not.”

There is a pause. And then another shift—something quieter, something you almost miss. Dumbledore is watching you now.

You feel it before you look up. The weight of his gaze, light as a feather, sharp as a blade. And when you finally meet his eyes, something about the way he regards you makes your stomach twist. Not in fear. Not exactly.

But in anticipation.

“You know, Ms. [L/N],” he says, and his voice is light, but his words are anything but, “on the weekends, the Ministry does not keep the Head of the Auror’s Office in unless required for an emergency.”

You blink. “Sorry, sir?”

He does not answer. Not in the way you expect. Instead, he tilts his head, smiling in that knowing, infuriating way of his. “That’s almost always on-field, however, so I think you’ll be okay.”

Your brows furrow. You open your mouth to ask him what he means, but he speaks again before you can.

“I think four turns should do it, in the evening,” he muses, as if commenting on the weather. “Remember this, will you?”

And then, without another word, he turns on his heel and begins walking away, his robes billowing softly behind him. Just before he disappears around the corner, he winks.

You stand there, frozen, watching the empty space he leaves behind. Then, almost in sync, you and Gojo turn to look at each other.

Your brows pull together. “What?” you whisper, almost comically.

Gojo exhales, his entire frame unwinding slightly, as if he has been holding his breath. “My father…” he starts, voice quiet, unreadable. Then he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “My father is the Head of the Auror’s Office.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach twists again.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. “But why did he tell me that?”

Neither of you have an answer. But something tells you that Dumbledore does.

The Room of Requirement molds itself around you the moment you step inside, the walls shifting, stretching, expanding into the space you need. The air is thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the quiet hum of magic lingering between the bookshelves and long wooden tables.

You waste no time. Stripping off your coat, you toss it onto the nearest armchair, fingers already tugging at the seams of your gloves before peeling them off. The moment they hit the table, you're moving again, weaving through the furniture with urgency, barely noticing the way Gojo lingers behind, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

"Alright," you exhale, steadying yourself as you press your palms against the longtable, eyes sweeping over the scattered notes, the books with their pages pinned open, the ink-stained parchments covered in hurried annotations. The evidence of your restlessness. "Let’s do this one by one. Dumbledore obviously knows something. He always does. But he wants us to figure it out ourselves, like some kind of twisted scavenger hunt."

"He gives me the heebie-jeebies," Gojo mutters, stepping further into the room, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes. "I get that he’s a legend, but I swear he’s worse than a ghost—always lurking, always knowing. He’s creepier than Moaning Myrtle, and that’s saying something."

"Myrtle’s actually kind when you get her to talk," you murmur absently, still scanning the mess of research before you, thoughts running ahead of you.

"She’s a banshee," Gojo deadpans, plopping himself down onto one of the chairs, his legs sprawled out in front of him. "And I don’t want you to refute that statement."

You roll your eyes, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a marker. Gojo watches the movement, his gaze flicking between you and the board, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. The cap clicks off with a sharp sound, and you press the tip to parchment, circling names, scrawling notes in the margins.

A few names stand out. A few, Gojo disregards. He taps the table twice with the end of his index finger, a silent cue. "Let’s start with your questions. Hit me."

You fold your arms over your chest, the weight of his gaze heavier than usual. But you shake it off, letting focus take over.

"Question one: There are stories of ancient wizards who dabbled in dark magic but weren’t necessarily evil. What if we’ve just rewritten history to suit whoever was in power at the time?" You tap the parchment, narrowing your eyes at a particular passage. "So many Slytherin families, specifically purebloods, are made to look bad in these records."

"Suguru isn’t a pureblood," Gojo points out, brows knitting together. "He’s a half-blood."

"And the Ministry isn’t exactly a beacon of truth," you counter, voice sharpening. "In one of the books I skimmed through, it mentioned how the Ministry actively stopped Newt Scamander from dealing with the Obscurus in New York. That was in the twenties. Whether it's here or in America, they play by the rules they make, and those rules aren’t always for the greater good."

"We should go to the Ministry," Gojo muses, tilting his head back against the chair. "Dumbledore meant it too. I know it."

"Not yet." Your voice is firm, cutting through any room for argument. "I need to figure some things out first."

You flip through the parchment, finger tracing the ink-stained words before you press on. "Professor Fig told me blood magic was practiced for centuries. Even necromancy. But then, out of nowhere, sometime in the 1600s, it was outlawed. No reason given. Just erased from sanctioned magic. Why?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "That doesn’t concern us. Blood magic isn’t being performed anymore. Trust me."

You arch a brow. "And you know this how?"

"There are… physical restrictions that come with it," he explains, slower this time, choosing his words carefully. "Suguru wouldn’t be able to withstand them. If he were performing anything remotely close to blood magic, he’d be either too frail to stand or dead. And he’s neither. Besides, at this point, only the Kamo family is officially documented for using blood magic."

"So it’s familial?" You pause, a thought creeping in. "That means you must have something too, yeah?"

He grins, insufferable as ever. "I’m one of the strongest wizards of our generation. But I can’t tell you what my techniques are just yet."

Asshole.

You resist the urge to throw the marker at him and turn back to the board instead, scanning the names again. "Alright. Next question. Grindelwald. It’s said that he created his own spells. Is that… possible? The history books only mention ‘forbidden spells’ in vague terms, nothing specific. If he was so dangerous, why isn’t there a single documented incantation of his?"

Gojo’s smirk fades, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Oh, there are records. Just not ones you can access." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "There are twenty-two spells he created, at least according to Ministry records. But they’re locked away in the restricted archives. Only higher-ups and select researchers can access them. And even then, only under extreme circumstances."

Your fingers tighten around the marker. "So the Ministry knows, but they don’t want anyone else to?"

"Pretty much," he shrugs. "But Grindelwald’s magic wasn’t about being ‘dark’ in the traditional sense. He was more political than anything—trying to make wizards the dominant race. This was all before World War II, mind you. I don’t think Suguru has anything to do with him."

You sigh, dragging the marker across the board to cross out Grindelwald’s name. But then, something clicks.

"Oh!" You turn abruptly, eyes wide. "I forgot to write this down earlier because I wasn’t sure about it. It was only mentioned in the footnotes of this ancient book I borrowed from the restricted section. Fig gave me a letter of approval, so Pince let me take it."

Gojo’s expression shifts. A flicker of something unreadable—gone before you can place it.

"Sukuna." You exhale the name, testing it on your tongue. "Sukuna Ryomen. I’ve never heard of him before. But from what I read, his entire existence revolved around one thing—killing the strongest wizards."

Gojo stills. His entire body goes rigid, his breath halting for just a fraction too long.

"Fucking hell." The words leave his lips, barely above a whisper.

You blink. "What? What is it? Does the name mean something to you?"

Gojo pushes himself up from the chair, striding toward the board, eyes dark with something bordering on disbelief. His fingers curl into his palm before flexing again, his breath coming sharper.

"Sukuna isn’t just an average dark wizard," he murmurs, almost to himself. "When he died, he didn’t just vanish. He sealed himself. Not in a body. Not in a ghost. But as something else entirely."

Your heart hammers. "What do you mean?"

Gojo turns, looking at you now. Fully. "You know about Horcruxes?"

"Only vaguely," you admit, feeling the weight of something shifting in the air.

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. "A Horcrux is an object where a dark wizard hides a fragment of their soul to become immortal. Sukuna… he didn’t make just one. Even making one is said to be one of the most difficult tasks known in the wizarding world. He made twenty."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"And no one alive is supposed to know that," Gojo mutters. "Except for a handful of people. I only know because I used to snoop through my father’s work as a kid."

A chill creeps up your spine. This—this is bigger than you thought.

“Do you think Geto… Suguru, is…” The words falter on your tongue, as if naming the thought will make it real. You look at Gojo, eyes wide, searching his face for any trace of certainty, any flicker of assurance that this is ridiculous, unfounded, impossible. But none comes. Your voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’s trying to contact or—”

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know how he’d come to know about him.” His voice is quiet but taut, the syllables clipped, deliberate. “Nobody knows about him.”

He pauses, glances at the board, then at you. His gaze lingers, as if weighing whether to continue. And then, as though some invisible dam breaks, he scoffs, a short, bitter laugh. “There was a time I used to think about Sukuna a lot. About how someone so deranged was never killed, never thrown into Azkaban. How none of the so-called greatest wizards of their time ever thought to just put him in a cell, like they did with Grindelwald. Y’know, after that New York thing you were talking about.”

“Maybe he was too strong,” you say, and you barely register the words as they leave your lips, spoken like an afterthought, like something not meant to be heard at all.

Gojo is watching you now. Not just looking, but watching—observing, assessing, dissecting the thought that just slipped from you so easily. His silence is heavy, but you press forward, leaning against the desk, exhaling steadily. “We should try to explore this angle, you know.”

“There is no angle.” His voice is firmer now, more clipped. “It can’t fucking be Sukuna. Suguru has no way of knowing who Sukuna even is.”

“What if he does, Satoru?” You tilt your head, sinking into the nearest chair. The weight of this conversation is suddenly unbearable. Your fingers press against the bridge of your nose, rubbing slow circles, willing away the dull ache behind your eyes. “What if he found out? He’s practicing dark magic, isn’t he? What if this is all leading to something bigger?”

Gojo exhales sharply, his irritation manifesting in the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands curl into loose fists against the table. “You do realize you’re just shooting guesses in the dark, right?” His voice is different now, lower, edged with something like anger, but not quite. Something closer to frustration, closer to something deeply personal. His nostrils flare. “Don’t speak about Suguru like that. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m not slandering him, I’m giving you a possible explanation—”

“Okay, how about we go to the Ministry then?” Gojo straightens, a challenge in his stance, in the sharpness of his words. “Check out the official records? There should be something about Sukuna, right?”

You stare at him, then shake your head, willing your heartbeat to slow. “Tell me more about him first. Before we go running into the Ministry.” A pause. “And don’t pretend it’s not dangerous for you to step foot in that place. We both know it is.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gojo mutters, running a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers through the white strands in frustration. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he turns to the board, his back facing you. His silhouette is stark against the dim candlelight, broad and tense, and when he finally turns to face you again, his eyes are unreadable. He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t tell you any of this. If anything, it puts your life at risk.”

“Tell me anyway.” Your voice is steady. You tilt your head, watching him. “We’re in it now. The both of us. I’d rather my life be in just as much danger as yours is.”

Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, and something flickers in his expression—unreadable, soft and fleeting before it vanishes behind a carefully placed mask of indifference. He sighs.

“Sukuna’s soul was split into twenty pieces.” The words are measured, weighted, as though each one carries something more than just meaning. “Because his body was too powerful to fully destroy. Or die.”

Something shifts in the air between you, something uneasy, something that makes the space feel smaller than it is. You swallow, listening.

“There’s an old text,” Gojo continues, rolling his shoulders back, but his voice is quieter now, like the words themselves have the power to summon something dark, something long buried. “It suggests that if one wizard absorbs enough of his Horcruxes, they could become his vessel. A host for his spirit.”

A pause. 

“I only know this because I was a curious child. And because I had a habit of sneaking into places I shouldn’t be.” His voice is flat, but there’s something beneath it, something carefully restrained. “And because when my father found me reading those papers, he threw me down the stairs.”

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

Gojo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Focus on the important part, Fawkes.”

“The 'important part'?” Your voice rises, incredulous. “You can’t just tell me your father threw you down the stairs like it’s some passing detail, Satoru.” You stand now, hands bracing against the desk, staring at him. “That’s not normal, and we both know it after I fixed your gash last time!”

“I know it’s not normal, but for Merlin’s sake, can we—” Gojo exhales, pressing his fingers against his temple. Then, suddenly, his shoulders drop. The frustration fades, replaced by something else. Something almost… tired. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, until there’s only a foot of space between you. His voice is softer when he speaks next. “I’ll tell you all of it. Yeah? Just… after this is over.”

You hold his gaze. He is too close now, but you don’t move away. His eyes are still unreadable, but they hold something different now—something quiet, something unspoken.

“You cleaned me up once,” he murmurs. “I might need you to do it again.”

The words hang between you, suspended in the dim light. Your breath catches, just slightly.

You swallow, nodding once. “A-alright.”

"Anyway," he says, after a moment, turning slightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. "We should—well, we should go to the Ministry like Dumbledore hinted. Not because you think Suguru has something to do with Sukuna, let's make that clear. But we can't just go like this."

There’s something in his voice, a sharpness beneath the casual tone, a weight to the words that makes your stomach tighten.

"What do you mean?" you ask, tilting your head.

Gojo exhales through his nose, pacing once before looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he moves—shrugging on his coat, fastening the buttons with quick, practiced fingers. "Meet me by the Wooden Bridge in an hour."

You blink. "What?"

"And," he cuts in, already moving toward the door, "wear something dark. A black longcoat, if you have one. Nothing bright. No color."

Your brows furrow. "Why are you giving me fashion advice?"

A grin flickers across his face, something boyish and almost fond, but there’s an edge beneath it, a little wry. "Just do as I say." He steps backward through the door, the dim light catching in his silver hair. "This might just be the best espionage trip of our lives."

And with that, he's gone. The door swings shut behind him, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence in the air. You stand there for a moment, your pulse in your throat, staring at the space where he had just been.

Then, with a sigh, you grab your coat.

Dusk settles over the castle grounds like ink bleeding into paper, the last vestiges of light stretching thin against the horizon. The air is crisp, damp with the promise of nightfall, and the wind hums low through the wooden beams of the bridge. Below, the Black Lake glimmers in the fading light, a dark mirror swallowing the sky whole.

You stand at the edge, fingers curled over the railing, the cold seeping into your gloves. There’s something about the quiet that feels heavier than usual, pressing at your ribs, wrapping itself around your spine like a premonition. You tell yourself it’s just the wind.

Then, footsteps. Fast, deliberate.

You turn just as Gojo barrels toward you, his coat billowing behind him, hair a mess of silver and shadow. He’s breathless when he reaches you, but not from exertion—you know him too well. This is adrenaline. This is thrill biting at his heels, curling in his chest.

He catches your arm, his grip firm but not rough, and tugs. "Come along," he says, voice lower than usual, urgent. "We need to get a little farther in case anyone sees us."

You don't move just yet. "What exactly are we doing?" you ask, searching his face.

Gojo grins, and it’s that boyish, wicked thing—too sharp for something so pretty. The kind of smile that makes you brace yourself. "Time-Turner," he says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather. "You have one. We’re using it."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, what?" The words come out strangled, an octave too high. "Right. Of course, Dumbledore said—"

"Four turns," he says simply, holding up four fingers before dropping his hand. "Then we Disapparate to London. Ministry of Magic."

You gape at him. "And they’re just going to let us in? Let us waltz through their bloody archives because you’re the son of the Head Auror and a pureblood?"

"No," he says, and this time his grin is something else entirely—mischief carved in moonlight, the gleam of a dagger hidden in silk.

It’s then that you notice what he’s wearing. You take a step back, looking him over. The white dress shirt, crisp beneath a waistcoat that fits just right. The tie, dark and neatly knotted. The glint of a pocket watch chain disappearing into the fabric. A briefcase, small but distinct, clutched in his free hand.

You blink. The words slip out then, half incredulous, half fascinated. "What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Bloody hell, don't tell me we're—"

Gojo barks a laugh. "You’re quick," he muses, stepping closer, and you catch the faintest scent of cedarwood and parchment. He dips a hand into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small glass vial filled with something murky, something viscous. "Polyjuice Potion."

Your breath leaves you in a whisper. "You’re brilliant."

He smirks. "Flattery won’t get me into your bed, Fawkes."

You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "I’m surprised you even know how to Disapparate."

He winks. "I know a lot of things," he says, pressing the vial into your palm. His fingers brush yours, warm against the cold. "Here. Drink up. It'll make you look like my mum."

The wind howls through the bridge, biting at your skin. You swallow hard. Somewhere in the distance, the castle looms, but there’s no turning back now.

You grab the bottle. And you uncork it immediately, before downing the contents into your mouth.

The taste is vile. Thick and acrid, like spoiled milk curdled with copper, and it coats your tongue so thoroughly that you nearly gag on instinct. You swallow hard, forcing it down, willing it to stay down, and the moment it settles in your stomach, it begins.

It is not an instant transformation, but a slow, creeping shift, like ink spreading through water.

Your bones feel like they are stretching, skin pulling taut, reshaping itself over a frame that does not belong to you. Your hands tremble as they lengthen, the fingers too foreign, too unfamiliar. Something coils in your chest, slithering into the crevices of your ribs, a sensation of wrongness sinking into every cell of your being. It makes you nauseous, makes your head swim.

When you blink, Gojo isn’t Gojo anymore.

Well, he is, but he’s taller. Not by much, but enough to feel the difference when he looks at you. His eyes, no longer searing, electric blue, are duller now—gray, washed out, hollow in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hair, still white, is combed back neatly, stiff with gel, a too-perfect contrast to the man you know. It unsettles you.

Your breath stutters as you reach for your own hair. The strands slipping between your fingers are impossibly dark, a black so deep it swallows light. The sight of it sends something skittering through your veins—discomfort, unease, a whisper of something deeper that you refuse to name.

Gojo watches you, his expression unreadable, though you swear there is something caught in his breath, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. Then, as quickly as it lingers, it is gone.

"Okay," he says briskly, shaking off whatever had crept in. "Come here."

He moves in closer, so close that for a moment, you forget where you are. The heat of him is startling in the cold, the way his breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet—his pale eyes flick down, catching the delicate gold chain around your throat. His fingers reach for it, grazing against the hollow of your collarbone before curling around the Time-Turner, pulling it toward him as if testing the weight of it between his fingers.

"Four turns," he murmurs, glancing back up at you. The space between you narrows, almost nonexistent now, but his voice is measured, deliberate. "That should be enough."

You swallow. His knuckles are against your chest now, and for a fraction of a second, his thumb brushes the side of your throat before he shifts, looping one arm around your waist—not to pull you in, not quite, but enough to steady you. "Don’t let go," he says, quieter now, something softer in his voice.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he twists the Time-Turner.

The world lurches.

A pull you've experienced way too many times before, a violent snap, and then—motion. Everything bends, warps, unspools. Time collapses inward, the fabric of it twisting, folding, rewinding. The air is thick, viscous, pressing in on you like water. A dizzying flicker of colors and shadows, moments folding over themselves, the sensation of falling in all directions at once. Your breath catches, your fingers grasp at whatever they can—his wrist, the sleeve of his coat, his waist, you don't know. The only thing you know for certain is that he is solid, unmoving, the only anchor in this storm of shifting time.

Then, as quickly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam against the ground. The world steadies.

Gojo exhales sharply, blinking, shaking out his hands as if trying to rid himself of the sensation. His grip on you doesn’t loosen right away. You’re both breathless, rattled, as if something in you was just wrenched apart and put back together again.

Then he releases you, stepping back just enough to look at you properly.

"Alright," he says again, but slower this time, his voice a little hoarser than before. "Now, let's go."

You barely have time to process the words before his fingers wrap around your arm, and then, the sensation is immediate.

It is as if something has hooked itself behind your navel, yanking you forward, through, beyond. The world compresses, tightens, squeezes the air from your lungs until you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist. Your stomach twists, flips inside out, and just as suddenly as it begins, it stops.

You stumble. The bile rises instantly.

Gojo doesn’t pause. He grips your wrist and pulls you forward, through the crush of London’s morning streets, weaving effortlessly between pedestrians who pay you no mind. The sun is pale overhead, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and petrol, and it takes all of your willpower to keep yourself from doubling over right there on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Gojo asks, sparing you a glance, though he doesn’t slow.

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I’m trying very hard not to vomit on your very expensive-looking shoes."

His mouth twitches. "Do your best. These are the only ones that fit."

The joke barely registers. You’re still reeling, still pulling yourself back into your own body when he steers you toward a grand stone building—HM Treasury. You’ve seen it before, but only from a distance. To the rest of the world, it is nothing more than a government building, its facade unassuming, its history unremarkable. But you know better.

The Ministry of Magic sits beneath it, hidden from Muggle eyes.

Your heart pounds.

Gojo leads you through the entrance, past marble columns and security desks where wizards blend seamlessly with their non-magical counterparts, their disguises impeccable. An elevator stands at the far end of the hall, and he pushes you into it without ceremony, offering the elevator boy a murmured word—something low, something clipped—but you can’t make it out.

You are still concentrating on breathing. The walls of the elevator seem too close, the floor shifting beneath your feet as it descends, deeper and deeper, into the earth. The sensation is dizzying, claustrophobic, and your throat burns with the effort of keeping everything where it belongs. You cough once, then twice, swallowing down the last remnants of nausea.

Gojo stands beside you, arms crossed, his face eerily neutral. Too neutral.

Then, with a sharp chime, the doors slide open. And there it is.

The Ministry of Magic sprawls out before you, vast and pulsing with life. The floors gleam beneath the glow of floating lanterns, and the walls stretch impossibly high, lined with enchanted windows that flicker between storm and sunshine. Wizards bustle through the halls, robes billowing as they move with purpose, their conversations a murmur of layered voices. The air is thick with ink and parchment, with the faint hum of magic woven into every stone.

For a brief moment, the entire place stills. Not in motion, but in focus.

The weight of a hundred gazes flickers toward you, sharp and fleeting. Recognition, curiosity, hesitation—all of it flashing across the faces of those who know who Gojo’s father is. Who know, perhaps, the woman beside him.

Then, as quickly as it comes, it is gone. The moment passes, and the Ministry moves again, indifferent, uncaring. You let out a slow breath. "Shit," you murmur.

Gojo’s smirk is barely there, but you catch it before he turns away. "Welcome to the Ministry," he says.

The Atrium stretches out before you, grand and gleaming, its polished floors reflecting the golden gates that guard the farthest elevator. The ceiling, impossibly high, is charmed to shimmer with a soft, otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that stretch and curl around the pillars. Wizards move in careful, calculated strides, their robes swishing as they pass, their murmured conversations lost beneath the distant hum of enchanted parchment shuffling through the air.

Gojo walks beside you, arm in arm, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. His hand, warm and steady, rests lightly over yours, as if it has always belonged there. A mere prop, an illusion of familiarity. Yet, the weight of it grounds you, keeps you tethered to this carefully crafted deception.

The elevator looms ahead, its gilded doors casting fractured reflections of the two of you as you step inside. It is empty.

A deliberate emptiness. No one follows. No one dares.

The moment the gates slide shut, Gojo hums softly, an idle, almost absentminded sound as he adjusts his grip on his briefcase. His fingers graze over the metal clasp, slow, deliberate. You can feel it—the shift, the careful way he molds himself into a shape that is not his own. When he speaks, his voice is lower, clipped, perfectly measured.

"Level Nine, please, Gregory."

The attendant, a thin, sallow-faced man, inclines his head immediately. "Yes, of course, Mr. Gojo, sir."

No hesitation. No second glance.

The elevator descends, the air thick with something unspoken, something heavier than just the enclosed space. Gojo is silent beside you, and you study him, study the way he moves, the way he exists within this borrowed identity. His fingers drift to his pocket, slipping out the watch. He checks it, movements languid, precise, before snapping it shut with a quiet click and tucking it away again.

You watch him. You cannot see him. You cannot see Gojo Satoru in the man beside you.

The realization unsettles you more than it should.

"Have a nice day, sir," Gregory says when the doors slide open, bowing his head slightly.

Gojo does not speak. He only nods, a simple, dismissive gesture, before stepping out, guiding you along with him.

The corridor ahead is dark.

Not dimly lit—dark.

An unnatural kind of darkness, thick and all-consuming, pressing in from all sides. The floor beneath your feet is slick, obsidian-like, divided by thin, pale lines that stretch endlessly forward, the only indication of where the ground begins and ends. If not for them, you might believe you were standing in nothingness itself.

Your grip tightens around Gojo’s arm, and he glances down at you. His gaze softens—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before he speaks.

"Department of Mysteries," he murmurs. His voice is quieter here, as if speaking too loudly might wake something lurking in the dark. "Every prophecy, every classified record, every secret the Ministry has buried… It’s all here."

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your pulse thrums against your ribs.

"People are killed here, too," he adds, almost absently, his eyes scanning the corridor.

"Oh." The word barely escapes your lips, and it is nothing more than a breath, a wisp of sound swallowed whole by the darkness.

Gojo hesitates. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He looks left, then right. The careful surety in his steps falters. Your heart pounds louder.

"Are you…" You trail off, watching the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your sleeve. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost," he mutters, still glancing between the paths ahead. "Just… not sure which way it is."

You exhale sharply. "That’s called being lost, dimwit."

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the corridor, shattering whatever fragile cocoon of secrecy the two of you had woven around yourselves.

"Mrs. Gojo? I thought you were home today."

Your spine stiffens instantly, fingers twitching against Gojo’s sleeve. Slowly, carefully, you turn.

A woman stands a few feet away, walking toward you with the poised ease of someone who does not question your presence, does not suspect. Not yet.

She is young—not as young as you or Satoru, but young enough to still hold that quiet eagerness in her gaze. Late twenties, perhaps. Dark hair neatly tied back, a crisp white blouse tucked into an ironed skirt. She wears glasses, thick-framed and pastel pink, an odd contrast to the clinical formality of the rest of her attire. They suit her, oddly enough.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight. When the words finally come, they are stilted, uneven. "Y-yes, supposedly."

Your voice cracks. You clear it, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter. "I apologize. My throat is a bit sore."

The woman shakes her head, unfazed. "It’s alright," she says, adjusting her glasses. "I was hoping you’d look through my paper soon. The one I wrote. I sent a copy with my owl—"

Gojo interrupts her. Smoothly. Effortlessly.

"Dear," he says, turning to you with the air of a man who has done this a thousand times before, "I’m sorry to do this, but we really are in the middle of something urgent."

His hand finds the small of your back, his fingers curling there as if they have always rested in that space. As if they have memorized the way your body fits against his. It is a performance, and he plays it with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to make the world believe him.

"My darling is assisting me on a case," he continues, his voice calm, commanding. "I’m afraid we can’t stay to chat."

The woman stiffens, stepping back immediately. "So sorry, sir."

"I’ll see your paper soon," you add quickly, softer now, careful to maintain whatever illusion of familiarity she expects. Her eyes brighten, her lips curling into a small, pleased smile. You regret the words as soon as they leave you. She is far too delighted, far too expectant. You have just given her something you cannot give.

Gojo does not acknowledge it.

Instead, he turns his gaze toward you again, and you recognize the shift—the careful tilt of his head, the slight lift of his brow. He is setting the stage.

"Where are the archives, my dear?" he asks, voice deliberate. You know what he is doing.

And so does she. The woman is quick to interject, stepping forward again. "That way, sir. First entryway to your left."

Gojo inclines his head in acknowledgment, a satisfied glint in his gaze. "Thank you."

Then, without another word, he pulls you along.

You chance a glance over your shoulder. The woman is still watching, her expression unreadable. When she catches your eye, she waves, polite, expectant. You nod, just slightly, before disappearing into the darkness.

For a few minutes, the two of you walk in silence, the sound of your footfalls swallowed by the suffocating hush of the Department of Mysteries. The walls stretch high, black brick stacked upon black brick, endless shelves crammed with books and vials and ancient, dust-covered artifacts. There is no natural light here, only the weak glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their golden flicker casting long, shifting shadows that distort as you pass beneath them. The air is heavy, thick with something old, forgotten, waiting. The corridors stretch in every direction, each turn identical to the last, a labyrinth designed to trap those who don’t belong. And yet, Gojo moves with purpose.

He walks ahead of you, his father’s long coat billowing at his ankles, his shoulders squared, his pace brisk and assured. There is no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. It’s unnerving, how he carries himself in this place, how he navigates the endless maze like he has walked these corridors before.

"You know where you're going?" you ask, voice hushed, brows furrowing. It doesn’t make sense—he shouldn’t know. But he does. You can tell. You can see it in the way he moves, in the way his fingers barely graze the books that jut out unevenly from the walls, in the way his head tilts slightly, listening for something only he can hear.

He doesn’t stop, only glances back at you with something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "Remember when I said I have a knack for snooping?"

He smiles, soft and easy, but on his father’s face, it looks wrong. Unsettling. Like a mask stretched over the wrong bones. But then he exhales, a quiet, measured sound, and murmurs, "I have a Pensieve at home. You know, the thing you use to look at other people’s memories."

"Whose memories did you look at?" Your voice is quieter now, more careful. "Your mother?"

He hums, neither confirming nor denying, but you already know the answer. "My mother is the Head of the Research department in the Ministry," he says eventually, tone softer now, almost thoughtful. Then, when he notices your expression, he sighs. "Don’t give me that look—yes, that one. It feels like my mother is looking at me in disappointment."

"Technically," you murmur, "she is. Can't believe you never told me something that important."

He huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. "Anyway, I extracted some of her memories while she was sleeping."

There is no guilt in his voice when he says it. No shame. Just the calm, matter-of-fact tone of someone who has long accepted that certain lines will always be crossed. He tilts his head, thoughtful. "She worked on something regarding Sukuna years ago when my father required it, so it was buried deep. Hard to find. But I found one or two." There’s a glint of triumph in his eye now, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "So we can, technically, find our way to her old research."

Your breath catches, just for a second, before you mutter, "You're bloody brilliant." A pause. "Insufferable, but brilliant."

He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I don’t appreciate the insufferable part of that comment," he says, "But I’ll take it, darling."

You groan, feigning pain as you start pressing a hand to your chest to ward off nausea. "Oh, god."

He chuckles, quiet, almost genuine. But then, he stops. It takes you a second to realize why. He’s staring at you, his brows drawing together in something close to alarm. But it’s not you he’s looking at—it’s your hair.

"Shit," he breathes. "We're changing back."

Your stomach plummets.

Panic grips you, quick and unrelenting, and your breath stumbles, your chest tightening, filling too much, your limbs growing heavy with the weight of something you can’t control. Your fingers tremble at your sides. You blink rapidly, feeling the shift—bones reshaping themselves, skin warming, hair changing, pooling into its natural color. You feel it happen, but you can’t stop it.

He moves before you can react.

A hand around your wrist, firm, steady, pulling you towards the nearest shelf. The press of his body against yours, the heavy fabric of his father’s coat between you. He smells clean, crisp—something sharp, like winter air, something sweet, like honey. His grip tightens, anchoring you, steadying you. "We're here," he murmurs, low and careful. "Don’t worry. We're inside. We can Disapparate out. It's illegal, yes, but they won't know it was us."

"But they saw us come in—" 

"They won’t know it was us." His voice is calm, but insistent. Your cries calm under the tone of his voice, as you try to breathe. "They won’t know it was two kids from Hogwarts impersonating two of the most important people at the Ministry of Magic."

His eyes change first. The dull, washed-out gray of his father’s gaze sharpens back into that impossible blue, that staggering, summer-sky brilliance. His cheekbones fill out, his jawline softens, the deep hollows under his eyes lift slightly. You watch it all happen in real time, like something unraveling, undoing itself.

You nod, swallowing down the remnants of panic. "Okay. Yes. We’re fine."

"We’re fine," he echoes, quieter now. His hands fall away from you, slow, reluctant. He looks past you, and you follow his gaze.

"Alright," he murmurs. "It’s just... through those doors."

He glances toward the shelves, his gaze landing on the double doors tucked into the shadows. They are deep blue, so dark they could be black, their surfaces smooth and cold-looking, as if the very material resists light. Wood or metal, you cannot tell. The air around them hums with something just beyond perception, something that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. When Gojo takes a step forward, you follow without thinking, as if drawn in by the same invisible current.

He reaches for the doors, his fingers barely brushing the handles before hesitating. You both know better than to rush—Ministry doors, especially ones in the Archives, are not to be trusted. The moment stretches, silent and heavy, before he finally presses his palm against the surface and pushes. The doors give way with a near-soundless shift, swinging inward, revealing the yawning darkness beyond. You step through together, breath held, waiting for something to snap, for a hex to ignite the air, for something unseen to wrap around your ankles and pull you under.

But nothing comes.

Instead, the darkness swallows you whole.

The corridor outside was dim, but this—this is suffocating. The blackness is thick, pressing in at the edges of your vision, and for a moment, you feel like you've stepped into something alive, something that might close its mouth around you and never let go. Then, slowly, the room begins to take shape. The first thing you see is the glow.

It is in the center of the room. Soft at first, then impossibly bright, an eerie silver light spilling from a single, shallow stone basin. A Pensieve. Its glow reaches out, licking at the towering shelves lining the circular walls, illuminating their contents in thin, wavering light. Books—tomes so thick and ancient they look more like relics than texts—stand in orderly rows, their spines cracked and weathered. But it is not the books that pull at you. It is the shelves of glass vials, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each one filled with swirling memories suspended in liquid silver. A breath catches in your throat.

“Are Pensieves supposed to glow like that?” your voice barely rises above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the unnatural light.

Gojo’s frown deepens. “No,” he says, his voice low, careful. “This wasn’t in the memory.” His eyes dart around the room, gaze flickering over the shelves, over the countless memories sealed away in glass. “This room was supposed to have records. Archives on dark wizards.”

You turn to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been changed.” There’s something raw in his voice, something tight in the way he says it. “I was stupid to think it would be the same after all these years.”

“No, wait.” You reach for his arm before he can retreat into that dangerous space in his mind, the one where he shuts everything out. Your grip tightens as your eyes settle on the glass cases surrounding the Pensieve. Rows upon rows of memories, cataloged and stored. Vials lined neatly in place. The room is wrong, but the purpose remains the same. Information is here, waiting to be found. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, only watches you, uncertain. Then he exhales, nods once, and follows.

The closer you get to the shelves, the more you notice the details. The labels on the vials, each one scrawled in a hand you don’t recognize. Some date back decades. Others, centuries. You skim the shelves, fingers ghosting over the glass, scanning names and dates, heart thrumming in your chest.

Then you see it.

“Look.” You reach upward, pointing to a vial perched near the top. It looks newer than the others. Unsettlingly recent.

Gojo steps closer, rising onto the balls of his feet to retrieve it. The glass is cool in his palm, the memory inside swirling restlessly as if aware it is being watched. His jaw tightens. “It’s from last week.”

You swallow. “What do you think?”

“We’re here anyway, aren’t we?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Might as well.”

But you hesitate. Something in your chest constricts. “Wait,” you say, watching him carefully. “We don’t even know whose memory this is.”

His grip on the vial tightens slightly. “My mother’s the only one who spends this much time in the Archives. It has to be hers.”

“Or someone else’s.” Your voice is firmer now. Your mind is already moving ahead of you, calculating, predicting. If it isn’t his mother’s, it could be someone dangerous. Someone who might not want their memories seen. You reach forward and take the vial from his hand. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “What?” His expression shifts, his posture straightening, eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not.”

“Shut up,” you say, rolling the vial between your fingers. “You and I both know that if there’s something in here—something important—you won’t tell me everything.” You don’t phrase it like a question. You already know the answer. He will keep secrets. He always does. “So I’ll do it for us. Both of us.”

His mouth parts slightly, but he says nothing. You take it as permission.

Before he can stop you, you unstopper the vial and tip its contents into the Pensieve. The silver liquid spills and twists into its depths, and as the glow intensifies, you step forward.

His voice is tight. “Fawkes—”

“I know what I’m doing, Satoru,” you say, glancing back at him one last time before turning to face the swirling light. “I’ll tell you everything I find. I promise.”

The promise lingers between you, unspoken things coiling beneath it. You swallow, forcing down the weight of it, and then, you plunge your head into the water.

When you open your eyes, the darkness remains. It is thick, pressing in at the edges, refusing to recede even as you blink, as if light itself has no place here. The air is dense, heavy with something unseen, something remembered only in fragments. A presence lingers. You are not alone.

Ahead of you, a woman walks. Her figure is long, draped in a suit that is precise, expensive, tailored to fit the exact dimensions of her power. A long black coat flows behind her, weightless, unbothered by the movements of the air. She is tall—taller than you by an inch, maybe two. But it is not her height that makes her imposing. It is the way she moves. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. A woman who has never known the need to rush.

It is only when she turns slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the strands of her hair, that you know for certain.

Gojo’s mother.

Her hair is darker than the void you’ve stepped into, so black it seems to swallow the faintest glow. It absorbs rather than reflects, as if made of something beyond human, beyond earthly. It is a kind of darkness that does not allow itself to be seen—it simply exists.

You follow her, though the memory resists you. The edges of it blur, flickering in and out like an old film reel. There is something fractured about it, something incomplete. As if even as she bottled this memory, she had not wanted to hold onto it fully.

You recognize the walls around you now, even through the haze. The archives. The same halls you had infiltrated not long ago, walking through them as if you belonged. But here, now, in the past, they are different. The same walls, the same sterile air, but the feeling is heavier. The moment is thick with something unsaid.

She steps out of the hallway and approaches a desk. The woman seated there—you recognize her from before, the one with the forgettable name. She glances up, hesitates, and then asks something. A question about research, perhaps, though the words slip from memory as soon as they are spoken.

Gojo’s mother does not answer. She does not pause. She does not acknowledge anything outside the path she has already decided for herself. A dismissal, barely a breath, and she moves forward.

The elevator doors slide open. She steps in. You follow, slipping inside just before they shut.

And then, for the first time, you are beside her.

She is standing still, facing forward, the way all people do in elevators. And yet, she does not look like anyone you have ever seen. She is impossible.

Her face is sharp, unreadable. Her eyes, when you dare to glance up at them, are endless. The same color as Gojo’s, but not the same at all. His eyes are full of something reckless, something alive, something dangerous. Hers are cold. Deep. The kind of ocean one does not swim in but drowns.

The elevator stops. She steps forward without hesitation, walking through you as if you are nothing, as if you do not exist.

And you run after her.

The space outside the elevator is unlike the rest of the Ministry. Here, the sterility fades. Color bleeds into the walls, accents of something warmer, something lived-in. A hallway lined with framed documents, quiet conversations murmuring behind closed doors. It is almost ordinary. Almost.

She does not stop to take any of it in.

People scatter as she passes, moving out of her way before she has to ask. Someone hands her a file. Another whispers something, a confirmation, a verification. She does not break stride. She flips the file open, scanning it with an expression so impassive that it may as well have been carved from stone. Her mouth tightens, only slightly, before she speaks.

“I want to meet this woman,” she says.

And then she is moving again, pushing open the door before her.

You expect a meeting room. A cold, lifeless space. Instead, you find something else entirely.

It is an office. Her office. And it is beautiful.

Mahogany shelves line the walls, filled with books that are worn from use rather than neglect. The desk is dark wood, heavy, ornate, carved by hands that understood the weight of the things that would rest upon it. Ivory accents run through the room, small and deliberate, a careful contrast against the dark. There are plants, impossibly green, their leaves stretching towards the light that filters in through the single high window. It is unexpected. It is not at all what you thought it would be.

And yet, none of it holds your attention for long.

Because she is not alone.

A woman sits across from her.

She is old. So old that the word itself feels insufficient. Her skin is pale, stretched too thin, the color of parchment left too long in the sun. She is brittle, you think, the kind of frail that suggests a single wrong movement might shatter her entirely. Her hair is silver, frayed, tangled into something that does not care for vanity. Her breath is uneven. She does not fidget, does not tremble, but she is not still in the way Gojo’s mother is. Her stillness is something different. Something waiting.

And then she looks at you.

No—through you. Past you. Or maybe into you.

It is a gaze that does not belong to someone of this world.

Her eyes are hollow and endless, the remnants of something that once saw more than human eyes were meant to. There is a flicker, a recognition that does not make sense, a knowing that does not belong to this moment. You feel it. A thing surfacing. A memory, lost and found all at once.

And then, without looking away, Gojo's mother speaks.

“Tell me what you know.”

Her voice is cracked, but steady. A whisper woven from something ancient. Something fragile. She steps forward. Her hands drop the file onto the desk. A sharp sound against the polished wood.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but absolute. “In as much detail as you possibly can.”

A pause. A breath. And then, “Seer.”

You gasp, the sound sharp, swallowed instantly by the thick, stifling air of the room. It is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in, that weighs on your skin like wet wool. A silence that is not truly empty, but filled with something waiting. Watching. It coils around your throat, settles in the hollow of your chest, latches onto your ribs and refuses to let go. Seers are rare—so rare that they might as well not exist. True Seers, that is. And if this woman is one, if she is truly about to speak, then whatever spills from her lips will be more than knowledge. Her words will be law. Unstoppable. Absolute.

You step forward.

The memory shifts around you, edges curling in like parchment held too close to an open flame. The air warps, thickens, unsteady, like it might come apart at the seams. It feels like standing inside a living thing, a great beast breathing slow and shallow, waiting for the moment it will decide to wake. The light overhead flickers. The oil lamps on the walls dim, their glow eaten away by the shadows pooling in the corners of the office.

It is dark. But you see her, still.

Gojo's mother stands at the desk, straight-backed, utterly still, only the slight rise and fall of her chest betraying life beneath her skin. Her suit is pressed and sharp, her long black coat hanging open at her sides. She looks every bit the authority she holds, power stitched into the very way she breathes, the way people in the hallway had scattered before her like birds startled from a wire.

She is not afraid.

But the way she looks at the old woman across from her, the way her fingers press against the file on the desk, just barely—not enough to be called hesitation, but enough for you to see it—makes something twist inside you.

The Seer draws in a slow breath, her lips parting slightly. You can feel the shift in the air. It is almost unbearable, the tension, the sheer weight of the moment stretching so tight you fear it might snap.

But she does not speak.

“I mustn’t, Mirai,” she rasps at last, and her voice is like brittle paper, like old wood splitting beneath too much pressure. “I can’t.”

Your pulse stutters. Not because of her words, but because of the way Gojo’s mother reacts to her own name.

She straightens—not much, just a fraction—but enough that you notice the sharp inhale through her nose, the way the line of her jaw sets just a little tighter. She is unreadable. Utterly, terrifyingly still. But the weight of her presence alone is enough to strangle the last of the air from the room.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is even. Cold, but steady. “Or I will make sure there is no proof you ever existed.”

Something passes over the old woman’s face. Not quite fear. Something quieter. More tired. Her fingers tremble against the fabric of her dress, curling weakly before falling still.

For a moment, she does nothing. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“There is a prophecy.”

A chill sweeps down your spine.

The words are spoken so plainly, so simply, that it takes a moment for them to sink into your skin. But the second they do, the room feels smaller, as if the walls are pressing in, as if the air has grown thicker, harder to pull into your lungs.

The woman at the desk does not react. She does not move. But you do.

Your hands brace against the desk, knuckles white. You cannot look away, cannot breathe properly. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you do not dare make a sound.

“Tell it to me,” she repeats.

There is a change in her voice. Subtle. But it is there. A shift so slight that no one else might have noticed, but you do. A thread of something not quite unshaken. A barely-there slip in the steel of her words.

The Seer’s gaze drops to her lap. She is quiet for so long you begin to wonder if she has lost herself again, if she has retreated into the fog of whatever place her mind resides in.

But then, she speaks.

“It will begin again,” she murmurs. “The war that was buried, the name that was feared. A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

A slow exhale. The shift of fabric as the woman standing at the desk—Mirai—settles, barely, almost imperceptibly.

“The Dark Lord waits,” the Seer continues, her voice no longer quite hers. It slips into something older, something distant. “Scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced, a heart still torn between shadow and light. He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become. But he will.”

Something in Mirai changes. Not in a way you can see—not yet—but you feel it. A quiet stillness, a shift in the air around her. The way her fingers press slightly against the desk, her nails barely digging into the wood.

Then, at last, she speaks. “What do you mean by ‘your son’? Is it my son?”

The Seer does not stop.

“Your son will know of it soon,” she says. “He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone. But the choice is not his to make.”

The room cracks. Not physically. But it feels like something has. The tension splinters, breaking wide open, and suddenly Mirai is moving before you can register it.

The chair scrapes against the floor. Her hands slam onto the desk.

She leans in. And her face, once so impassive, so eerily calm, is burning. Her nostrils flare, her shoulders squared, her glare searing into the old woman as if she could force the prophecy back into silence, as if she could take the words and bury them before they have a chance to root themselves into reality.

But the Seer does not flinch. She does not react at all. She simply breathes out, slow and steady, as if she has already seen this before.

“This war can be stalled,” she says, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

The memory shudders. A slow, unnatural ripple, like the air itself is gasping, like the walls have begun to exhale. Then, without warning, it splits apart.

The wooden panels of the office tremble, thin fractures crawling up their surface, splitting like ice under pressure. The lamps flicker once, twice—then die, swallowed by the growing dark. The ground beneath you is no longer solid; it pulses, shifts, wavers between existence and something else entirely. A slow, sickening pull coils around your ribs, as if the world itself is unspooling thread by thread.

“No,” you whisper. It barely carries over the thick, suffocating silence.

Then the desk collapses inward, disappearing into nothingness. The chair follows. The Seer does not scream when she vanishes. She simply ceases to be. It rattles you.

Your breath catches. A sharp, painful inhale that never reaches your lungs.

“No,” you say again, louder this time, desperate now, scrambling forward even as the floor beneath you begins to break apart like shattered glass, splintering at your feet. The void swallows everything in its path—books, shelves, papers floating momentarily in the air before they, too, are claimed by the abyss yawning below.

You try to move, but your legs don’t feel real. Your fingers reach out, desperate, aching, grasping at nothing but air. The world is slipping through your hands.

“No, no, no, no,” you choke, reaching for the old woman, for the place where she once was. The void has taken half the room now. The walls are no longer walls. They are ribbons of white, unraveling, curling, dissolving into the nothingness that waits just beyond. The prophecy still rings in your ears. Your son will know of it soon.

“I need to know more,” you gasp. Your voice is raw, frantic, the words tumbling out as you reach for something, anything—something solid, real. “Wait, please—I need to know more!”

The darkness does not listen. It is faster now, tearing through the floor beneath you, and then you are falling.

A weightless, terrible sensation. Your stomach lurching, your arms flailing. The air is rushing past your ears, deafening, roaring, a howling void that swallows every sound but your own strangled scream. Your body twists, your vision blurs—everything is wrong, everything is slipping away.

And then, there are hands on you. Warm. Solid. Your eyes snap open.

You gasp, sucking in air so fast it burns. Your chest heaves, but your lungs—your lungs won’t work, they won’t expand, won’t take in enough, and the pressure is unbearable, crushing, as if something has its hands wrapped around your ribs and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. The world is still spinning. Still dark.

"Fawkes." A voice.

You can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

"Fawkes, I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to go," Gojo says, his voice urgent, panting lightly as he shakes you. "Breathe, please. Breathe."

But you can’t.

Your hands clutch at him, fingers twisting into the fabric of his robes, grounding yourself in the only thing still here, still real. You can still hear it—faint and slipping away—the prophecy, the Seer’s voice, the war that is coming.

Gojo’s grip tightens.

"Come on," he urges, voice softer now, but no less desperate. "Breathe."

You cup his face, your fingers trembling against the sharp lines of his jaw, your breath still uneven, still shuddering, still not enough. His skin is warm beneath your palms, solid, real, but it is not enough to ground you, not enough to stop the panic climbing up your throat. The memory, the prophecy, everything still clings to you, curling its fingers into the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

“Satoru,” Your voice cracks. You shake your head, gasping, swallowing down the terror threatening to consume you whole. “I can’t. You can’t. You're not safe, something’s coming, and—”

His hands tighten around your arms, anchoring you to him. His eyes—brilliant, searing, endless—watch you carefully, tracing every flicker of fear in your expression, but he says nothing. Just nods. Once. Twice. Vigorously.

And then, footsteps.

The sound is distant at first, muffled by thick wooden walls, but it is growing louder, closer, steady, purposeful. Someone is coming.

Your breath stutters.

Gojo’s gaze flickers to the deep blue doors. You can hear it in his silence, the way his body tenses—he’s calculating, thinking, planning. Your fingers tighten in his robes, knuckles white.

“Fuck’s sake,” you choke out, voice barely above a whisper. “This cannot be happening.”

Your heart is hammering, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. You can feel his heartbeat too, steady but quick beneath your touch. He isn’t afraid. He never is. But you?

“Satoru,” you gasp, your words tumbling out too fast, too panicked. “What do we—”

But he moves before you can finish. His arms lock around you in an instant, and then—

A hook behind your navel. A violent yank. Again. You feel like screaming.

The world is gone. Or maybe you are.

Everything crushes inward, impossibly tight, impossibly fast, the pressure suffocating, wringing the breath from your lungs as the air folds in on itself. Your body is not your own; you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist, stretched too thin and compressed all at once. There is no sound, no breath, no thought—only the unbearable weight of being nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Your stomach twists violently. Again.

Impact.

The world slams back into place so suddenly that your body does not know how to catch up. You are moving before you realize it, stumbling backward, legs giving out beneath you. The nausea rises in a sickening wave, bile burning at the back of your throat.

There's softness, then. A bed.

You don’t know when you collapse onto it, but you are there now, hands clenching at the sheets, lungs heaving as you force down the overwhelming dizziness still clawing at you. The room is spinning. Or maybe you are.

Gojo is already moving. Already there. His hands press against your shoulders, firm, grounding.

“Wait here,” he says, breathless but certain. “I’ll get you water. And perhaps a bucket.”

You barely process his words, still too caught between then and now, between what was and what is.

He exhales sharply, shakes you—gently, but enough to make you look at him. His face is too close, his eyes too sharp, too searching. His hands are steady on you, unyielding.

“You’re safe,” he says, quieter this time. A declaration. A promise. His grip tightens, just for a second. “Yes? You’re safe. Breathe.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You aren’t sure it would be true.

“I’m getting you water,” he says again, as if repeating it will make it real. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Dobby? Get me a glass of water, please?” Gojo’s voice cuts through the stillness, loud. A sharp contrast to the way your own breath comes in uneven and shallow gasps. He is already standing, glancing toward the door, his presence too solid for the space you are in. Your fingers tighten in the sheets beneath you, still trembling, still trying to catch up with everything that has just happened.

Your heart is racing. You force yourself to look around, to make sense of where you are.

The room is unfamiliar, but it doesn't feel that way.

Soft blue walls surround you, the kind of blue that belongs to open skies and endless horizons, the kind that should make you feel free but only makes you feel impossibly small. The air is still, warm, carrying the faint scent of something clean, something comforting—linen and citrus and something you can’t quite name.

And then you see it.

A tall, polished cabinet against the far wall, its glass doors gleaming in the dim light. Inside, gold glints in neat rows—Quidditch trophies, awards, accolades, too many to count. And next to them, stacked high on the shelves, books—worn, dog-eared, well-loved. Not just schoolbooks, but novels, too. Fiction. Poetry. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

Then, the photographs.

Frames are scattered across the walls, the shelves, the nightstand beside the bed. A younger Gojo grins back at you from behind the glass, his arm slung around Geto’s shoulders. Another frame holds the two of them again, but this time, Shoko is there too, laughing, mid-motion, her head thrown back.

Your breath catches, then. You see it. The entire group.

It’s another photo from Hogsmeade, from years ago. The first time you had all gone together, when things were simple, when things were whole. You remember that day. You remember the warmth of it, the laughter, the way the snow had clung to your robes, the way Gojo had stolen your butterbeer and refused to give it back until you hexed him into a snowbank.

It is the kind of memory that should feel distant, blurred at the edges with time. But standing here, looking at it, it feels closer than ever.

Too close. Your throat tightens.

And then Gojo is there again, crouching in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you. His touch is careful, not hesitant, just sure. Like he has done this before. Like he has steadied you before.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re at my house. We’re still in London.”

London.

You swallow hard, nodding quickly, too quickly. You force yourself to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you think you see something there—concern, maybe, but it's unspoken. Before you can place it, the door creaks open.

A small figure scurries in, and your breath hitches.

The House Elf is tiny, barely reaching Gojo’s waist, his ears too large for his head, his eyes impossibly big, impossibly round. He's kind of adorable as he carries a tray with careful hands, the glass of water balanced perfectly on top.

“Dobby did not know Master Satoru was to come home today,” the Elf says, his voice quick and light. “Or Dobby would have prepared Master Satoru’s favorite snacks—oh.” His gaze flickers to you. “Master Satoru has brought a guest.”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair before reaching for the glass. He picks it up with easy familiarity, then turns back to you, pressing it into your hands.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this.”

You don’t realize how parched you are until the cool glass touches your skin. You wrap your fingers around it, still unsteady, still unsure, but you drink.

Gojo turns back to Dobby.

“Dobby, this is [Y/N].” He glances at you once before looking back at the Elf. “She’s my friend.”

Dobby hesitates at the threshold, his large, round eyes darting between you and Gojo, his spindly fingers curling at his sides. His ears twitch, flattening slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he is allowed to step closer.

You manage a small, unsteady smile. “H-Hello.”

The Elf blinks. Then, with a quick, precise nod, he bows his head. “Hello,” he says softly. His voice is high-pitched, almost musical, but there is something careful in the way he speaks. “Are you alright? Would you like something to eat?”

You shake your head, glancing at Gojo beside you. The dizziness is fading now, but the weight of what just happened still sits thick in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The room no longer spins, but your limbs feel unsteady, your stomach churning from the disapparation.

“My stomach feels like it’s being turned inside out,” you murmur, pressing a hand to your ribs. “I hate disapparation.”

“I got used to it after a while.” Gojo tries to smile, but it’s a pale, uncertain thing, barely there before it vanishes. Then, turning to Dobby, his expression sharpens. “Dobby, where are my parents?”

The Elf shifts on his feet, ears twitching again. “Master went to the Ministry of Magic,” he says quickly. “There was an alarm. People who looked exactly like Master Satoru’s parents were spotted at the Ministry. Both of them left in a hurry. They looked very worried. Very nervous.” He hesitates, his voice growing small. “It made Dobby scared.”

A chill creeps down your spine.

“So they know,” you whisper. “They know.”

You don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud until Gojo exhales, low and sharp.

“We’re so fucked,” you finish.

Dobby’s ears perk up at that, and his large eyes widen as he looks between you both. “Was it the two of you?”

Gojo stiffens. “Dobby—”

“If Master Gojo asks, I can’t refuse—”

“You mustn’t tell him,” Gojo interrupts, turning to face the Elf fully now. His voice is quiet, urgent. “You can’t.”

Dobby wrings his hands, shifting nervously. “But Master Gojo is my master.”

“And so am I,” Satoru presses. His voice is a whisper now, low, pleading. “Please. You can’t.”

You reach for him without thinking, your fingers brushing over his shoulder. He’s tense, his muscles drawn tight beneath your palm. You turn back to the Elf, your voice softer but just as steady.

“Dobby,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Think of it as hiding the truth. You’re not lying. You’re just helping us.”

Dobby fidgets, his long fingers twisting together, his small frame visibly trembling with the weight of the decision. The silence stretches, thick and uncertain.

Then, a nod. It’s small, hesitant, but it’s a nod.

The tension in your chest eases just slightly, and you exhale, long and slow.

“See?” you manage, offering the Elf a weary smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Dobby nods, his enormous eyes flitting between you and Gojo, his long fingers wringing together. “Dobby should make Master Satoru something to eat. Master Satoru mustn’t leave home without food.”

“Dobby, it’s really alright—”

“Dobby won’t take no for an answer, Master Satoru,” the elf insists, shaking his head with a quiet sort of finality. Then, turning to you, his expression softens into something almost warm. “I will pack something for Miss [Y/N] as well. She must eat later, or she will still feel sick.”

You don’t argue. There’s no use. You know better than to fight against the unwavering resolve of a house-elf. Instead, you offer him a small, tired smile, watching as he scurries toward the door, his little feet making no noise against the floor.

The moment he’s gone, Gojo moves. Swift and deliberate, he steps to the door, pressing it shut until it clicks into place. He lingers there for a moment, his hand still resting on the wood, his shoulders drawn tight. When he turns back to you, there’s something unreadable in his face.

“We have some time,” he says, glancing toward the clock mounted on the far wall. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge beneath it, a tension coiled so tightly it might snap at any second. “Tell me what you saw.”

Your fingers twist at the hem of your coat, fumbling over the fabric, the nerves settling deep in your stomach. “It’s a lot. I can’t—”

“Take your time,” he says, stepping toward you, his voice lowering. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee barely brushing against yours. “But you’re telling me all of it. You promised. It’s why I let you do it, anyway.”

You sigh, shaky and uneven. The memory is still raw in your mind, lingering like the afterimage of something you weren’t meant to see. The weight of it presses down on you, but Gojo is close, so close, and when you lift your eyes, he’s already watching you. His face is inches from yours, his gaze piercing, expectant.

You nod. You accept it.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, caught in the stillness. You focus on the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the feel of solid ground beneath your feet, as if grounding yourself will somehow make this easier. And then, finally, you speak.

“The memory wasn’t stable,” you begin, voice quieter than you mean for it to be. “I could tell from the very start. It was your mother’s memory.”

Gojo’s brow furrows slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it wasn’t stable,” you repeat. “Something was off. There was fog around the edges of it, like… like the memory itself was resisting me. Like she wasn’t ready for it. Like she didn’t want it to be real.”

He hums, thoughtful, before nodding for you to continue.

You swallow. “I followed her to her office. There was an old woman there with her. Really, really old. As old as Dumbledore, maybe even older. And she was a Seer.”

Gojo’s interest sharpens instantly. His head tilts, his ears practically perking up. “That’s surprising. Seers are rare. Real ones, anyway. Go on.”

“There was a prophecy.” The words feel heavy on your tongue, like saying them out loud makes them more real, more dangerous. Your hands curl into fists, pressing into your lap. “About everything that’s supposed to happen. I-I don’t know if I can—”

“You have to,” Gojo interrupts, his voice firm, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

For a second, your spine stiffens, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. But then, slowly, he reaches out, pressing a warm hand over yours. The tension eases, just a little.

“You have to tell me,” he says again, quieter now, his grip steady, grounding. “We have to stop it.”

You exhale. Then, slowly, you begin.

“It will begin again. The war that was buried. The name that was feared.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

Gojo pulls away. He stands abruptly, his hand slipping from yours, his back going rigid.

“Sukuna. You were right. It's true,” he breathes.

You nod, your throat tightening. “The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.”

The air in the room shifts, thickens. Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His entire body has gone eerily still, and for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time.

Your pulse pounds as you force yourself to say it.

“He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become.” You swallow. “But he will.”

Gojo turns then, sharply, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s something wild in his expression—something bordering on horror.

“Suguru,” he murmurs.

Your breath shudders. You nod. “There’s more.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt. You take another breath, steadying yourself before you continue.

“Your son will know of it soon. He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone.” Your voice drops lower. “But the choice is not his to make.”

The words linger. You know they do.

“This war can be stalled,” you continue, softer now, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

Silence.

Gojo blinks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales. A quiet, breathless sound.

“Holy fuck.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Now you know.”

Gojo drags a hand down his face, rubbing at the space where stubble would be if he ever let it grow. “There’s going to be a war.” The weight of it settles into his voice. “And I’m going to be at the center of it.”

“Looks like it,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, laughing softly—except it’s not real laughter, not really. Just disbelief, hollow and dry. He looks at you again, eyes sharp, assessing. “But we can stop Suguru.”

You nod, gripping onto that one certainty, that one sliver of hope. “Somehow. It’s possible. That’s all we need to know, right?”

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, then exhales, nodding once.

“That’s all we need to know.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Morbid thoughts but imagine no notices the princess's corpse for a while. Only for people in the palace to notice when the stench of rotten flesh starts feeling the halls through the cracks and vents.

And maybe Bruce or one of the boys notices. And they realize that's the scent of a DEAD body.

Let's say something like this happened

The castle had always held its share of secrets, but none as horrifying as this. At first, the servants whispered about the strange scent lingering in the halls—perhaps damp stone, spoiled food, or something forgotten in the cellars. But as the days passed, the stench grew stronger, seeping through the cracks in the walls, spreading through the vents, until ignoring it was no longer an option.

Bruce Wayne, the hardened ruler of the kingdom, was among the first to recognize it. He had smelled death before—on battlefields, in dungeons, in the aftermath of war. And this… this was the unmistakable scent of rotting flesh.

His sons noticed it too. Jason’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, unease settling deep in his gut. Damian narrowed his eyes, his voice cold and sharp. “That smell… it’s coming from inside the palace.”

Tim and Dick exchanged a glance before they all moved toward the source of the stench, their footsteps heavy with growing dread.

And then, they found it.

A forgotten room, sealed away from prying eyes. A chamber that had long since ceased to hold any significance—until now.

Inside, lying in what had become her unmarked grave, was the decayed body of the princess.

A sister. A daughter. A member of their bloodline, abandoned and cast aside, left to wither away in silence. No one had remembered her. No one had even thought to check.

Her death had gone unnoticed—until her rotting corpse had finally demanded to be acknowledged.

Dick swallowed hard, while Tim took a shaky step back. Jason clenched his jaw, fury bubbling beneath his grief.

Damian turned to Bruce, his young face twisted with anger and accusation. “How did you not notice?”

But Bruce said nothing. Because that question had already been ringing in his mind, long before anyone had spoken it aloud.

[777rare]

FAME AFTER DEATH...

Leaving behind A legacy...

ASTROLOGY ANALYSIS [pt.I]

People who can't ever be forgotten easily after their death and are remembered throughout generations...

THESE NOTES ARE ONLY A STUDY OF MINE AND HAS/HAS NOT BEEN PROVEN YET, SO IF IT DOES NOT RESONATE WITH YOU, FORGIVE ME AS IT WAS ONLY A STUDY/OBSERVATION OF MINE.

I DO NOT PLAGIARIZE, COPY OR REWORD ANY OF MY FELLOW ASTROLOGY OBSERVERS POSTS AND I DEMAND THE SAME IN RETURN.

!Trigger Warning! There is Mentioning of sensitive topics such as de@th, the way a person died, etc so please don't read what you cannot endure.

If you are a person who gets easily triggered please first understand that just because this celebrity has the same placement as you do, does not have to mean you will face the same demise. Other aspects and placements play a major role as well.

I have noticed similar placements in the charts of legendary people who are recognised by the massive population of the globe, no matter how many generations pass. I will go through each one of them one by one.

Mainly I have noticed how every single celebrity who is remembered for a very very long time, even for generations together have:

• True node in 5th house,8th house or 12th house and varuna and/or fama in the 8th,12th or 5th house.

• Even True node and varuna and/or fama in the degrees 0°, 17°,29°, 11°, 22° can indicate being famous and recognise for ages and generations.

• Varuna in the 4rth house makes one famous after his/her death. Why? This is because the 4rth house does not only rule the home, the mother, our mind, family, etc.

The 4rth house is also the grave, the cellar, the basement, the crypt. I read about the more deeper parts of the 4rth house once and understood that because this house is at the lowest point in the chart, this house rules everything deep and underground as well.

This house is all about the memories, the ghosts, the private things, etc. So a person having this also become widely famous after his/her death. I've noticed that the people having Varuna in the 4rth and Pluto in the 8th with vertex is very much famous for the way they died or their defeat and also their secrets being revealed after their death.

✓ 5° is well known for giving short lasting fame whereas 0°,17°, 29°, 11°, 22° show long lasting impact and fame.

EXAMPLES:

1. ABRAHAM LINCOLN

• Abraham Lincoln, the 16th U.S President, is famous for his achievements in political areas but the way he faced his death is most famous world wide.

✓ Abraham Lincoln had his ascendant sign in 22° which is seen in the charts of many legends, because the degrees 0°, 22° and 11° are known as the degrees of the 'chosen ones'. He did have a great impact in history.

✓ He has his True Node in the 8th house which resulted in his lasting recognition even after his death.

✓ He also has Varuna in the 8th house conjunct with Mars. Now usually,I've observed that Mars, Pluto or Uranus in this house had given many famous legends either a painful or unexpected death. Abraham Lincoln died of assassination in a theatre. Again, he is known world wide for the way he died more than his achievements.

✓Also, I've observed that Uranus (also at times, Pluto or Neptune) in the 8th house also gave certain legends a sudden death, it was unexpected or was not seen coming. Even Abraham Lincoln had this placement (Uranus in the 8th house).

2. FRIDA KAHLO

• Frida Kahlo, a Mexican painter is widely known for her many self-portraits and gained world wide recognition for her work mainly after her demise.

✓Frida Kahlo had her Varuna in 29° which gave way for lasting fame throughout decades. Also, this asteroid being in the sign of Aquarius did result in her massive online presence where people still talk about her work and her unique art.

✓Her True node is conjunct Jupiter in the 12th house which once again, resulted in her massive recognition after her demise.

✓Saturn in pisces in the 8th house resulted in, according to reports, her death caused by the overdose of a drug, suicide or pulmonary embolism (blood continuously clotting which causes great harm to the body). Not sure what was the real cause but I do know that it was related to water in her body and Saturn being the reason for the clotting and making her body parts struggle to function well.

✓Her death is also mysterious because she had Cancer in the 12th and like I said before the 4rth house is also what's hidden deep underground..unclear information. And also her 8th house rulers in the chart (pisces=jupiter and neptune) were both in the 12th house, making her death a mystery again and not so clear.

[No wonder we are always told by our parents never to talk to anyone about personal family matters because it is one that should remain hidden as people can use that to their advantage in many ways (for the 4rth house)].

✓How could I forget? She is also a Leo ascendant native which is why she had gotten fame and recognition, even if it was mainly after her demise.

3. GAUTAMA BUDDHA (THE BUDDHA)

•Gautama Buddha, also known as 'The Buddha', is widely recognised and praised as the founder of Buddhism and The greatest Buddhist monk.

✓Again, Gautama Buddha is a Leo ascendant native which gave way for fame and recognition. Now his ascendant sign is in 4° which is Moon being in the 4rth house. The 4rth house like I mentioned before is the house of deeper areas like the grave, the cellar, etc. This is one more reason his massive fame could've spread even more than before after his demise.

✓ The Buddha, the great philosopher and Buddhist monk, has his True node in 0° in the 12th house which indicates having a lasting impact on several generations even after his death.

✓He also has Jupiter conjunct fama in the 8th house which again indicates his infinitely expanded fame, being world wide after his death.

✓His Varuna is conjunct Neptune in the 6th house which makes so much sense because Neptune is the original ruler of the 12th house, being the house of deep knowledge and spiritual awakening so he will be widely recognised for his spiritual awakening and his spiritual way of living, the way he served people and lived a very deeply spiritual life. 'The Buddha' literally means or translates to 'The awakened one'.

✓He also had Pluto in the 8th house and his death was not a long gradual process or took a long time. He ate something that made him ill and his death was not expected out of it but again because Pluto is here, the way he died is often made up of a lot of beliefs than truths.

I have observed that when Pluto sits in the 8th or 12th house, a persons death, cause of death or reason why she/he was killed (if he/she was) becomes more of a mystery. It is not exactly clear and people often just speculate on it with theories and beliefs.

✓The way The Buddha died is also very famous because of how unique it was to many due to many beliefs about his death being very spiritual among his followers. He again had pisces in the 8th house which resulted in an illness or problems with digestion.

✓He also had vesta asteroid in this house in pisces which indicates a very spiritual death. It is believed that He decided his time of death.

This is Random but The Buddha had his Moon in the 4rth house which made him a 'Mommas boy', aww. Lol. I mean, yes, we can see based on history that he lost his original mother, Maya devi, but he still loved and valued his foster mother and maternal-aunt, Mahapajapati Gotami.

4. PRINCESS DIANA

• Princess Diana, a member of the British royal family, was the first wife of Charles III (then Prince of Wales) and mother of Princes William and Harry. She was widely recognised and adored by the world for her activism and glamour.

✓Princess Diana had her True node in Leo in the 11th house which first of all results in her massive popularity internationally and her being an internet sensation for the longest period of time.

✓Princess Diana also has her Varuna in the 8th house conjunct Venus and hence she will always remain this beautiful glamourous icon for a very very very long time moving forward after her death.

>Princess Diana is still widely recognised as this natural queen who lived by her own rules (especially during that 'revenge dress' incident👇)

and seemed to not fit in well in the royal family of Britain. This is definitely the effect of True node conjunct Uranus in the 11th house. Like I mentioned in my previous post, natives having True node conjunct Uranus are very free spirited people and are hard to tie down.

>Her True node conjunct Mars in the 11th house also definitely was the reason she was such an active social activist who provided major support for those who needed help.

She was one of major reasons why the world became more aware of such rising health issues at that time, hence she's recognised world wide for her efforts.

>Since Mars is conjunct True node she was and is still widely famous for the controversies surrounding her life and her death. She is still widely discussed for the drama in her life and how she was treated very unfairly in the family and how so much of unjustifiable actions were taken against her in the royal family.

Her death is still considered a huge controversy and mystery even though most people are certain that she was murdered by the royal family. (Mars and Pluto in the 12th)

THE ASTEROIDS MENTIONED ABOVE: FAMA(408) and VARUNA(20000)

That's it for today everyone!

I hope you enjoyed reading through this post.

A part 2,3 and probably even more will be coming where I'll be analyzing legendary icons charts like:

Bruce Lee, Marilyn Monroe, Michael Jackson, Nikola Tesla, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, Adolf Hitler, Steve Jobs, Elvis Presley, and so many more!

So I hope you stick around for more, and I hope you have a great day ahead!💖

[yongvillage]

ⓘ kidnapper!jaehyun x reader

hinted stalking, stockholm syndrome, mention of moodswings and neglectful behavior, slight breeding kink, daddy kink, overuse of petnames, stomach bulge

wc 1.7k

it was easy to lose track of time in here, nonexistent even, the only thing that grounded you being your own two hands that ran along the cold cement walls of jaehyun’s cellar. occasionally, you’d hear footsteps above you, the creaky floorboards reminding you of his presence.

sometimes, you worried that jaehyun had gotten caught; caught having a girl in his basement. and other times, you worried that jaehyun had forgotten about you completely, leaving your body to slowly eat away at itself and rot. it must be easy for a man as busy as himself to have other, more important, things to tend to. jaehyun had always been a workaholic, you thought.

but he was kind too, bought you many plushies and blankets to keep you company in the dark cellar. you remember the start of it all, when he overcompensated in his purchases as a means to get you to like him again, like you did when you had first met him. he’d come home from work each day with a new stuffed sanrio plush in hand, holding it up to you as a smile tugged at his lips. his expression begged; i’m sorry, i did this because i love you too much to share.

you didn’t know what you felt anymore. anger, fear, warmth, confusion, happiness, it all meddled into a mush of thought that left you scratching at yourself mindlessly. the only thing accompanying you now were distant memories, soundless and blurry, playing in your mind like a stop-motion video.

there were the warm and fuzzy ones, the ones that helped lull you to sleep each night, like a little bedtime story. sometimes you’d picture the times when jaehyun would bathe you. he didn’t do it often, but when he did, he’d scoop warm water onto the back of your weak body and whisper sweet nothings and praise into your ear. it was times like those that solidified the thought in your head; jaehyun loved you.

and when jaehyun was in an especially good mood, he would take you with him to run errands. whether it was going to the post office or the grocery store, you didn’t care. you’d cling to his side, forgetting how loud everything was outside the cellar. jaehyun would chuckle and hold you close to him, knowing how overwhelmed his little girl got. he knew you’d never try to escape. you needed him now, and he struggled to find a word to describe how happy he was to comply.

he’d only bring you out every few weeks or so. you guessed, at least. time was a strange thing.

you heard footsteps approaching the basement door, assuming that jaehyun was just pacing around to get to his bedroom, but instead, the door opens. a sliver of light soon grows, causing you to wince and cover your face, backing further into the corner where your mattress met the wall.

the door closes and jaehyun turns on the lights before beginning to walk down the stairs.

“princess?”

you don’t respond, your mouth too dry to even try and mutter a sound. you slowly let your hand fall flaccid in your lap, trying to adjust to the newfound brightness. jaehyun slowly approaches you, keeping his footing light as if not scare you. he steps on something soft, and looks down to see one of your stuffed animals that had rolled off your mattress.

he chuckles, bending down to pick it up before continuing towards you with a warm smile. he crouches next to your bedding, and the way he holds it up brings you a sense of deja vu.

“how’d that get there?” he sets the stuffed pompompurin in your lap before reaching up to ruffle your hair. you offer him a weak, shy smile in response.

“mind if i join you?” jaehyun questions quietly, and you shake your head, bringing your knees to your chest as he takes a seat next to you.

jaehyun was a patient man. he sat next to you for a couple minutes, talking softly about his day. he’d gone out in the morning for a coffee, and later came back home to catch up on work. he cooked, cleaned up a bit, and finally came downstairs to check up on his girl, gently rubbing your thighs as his hand neared your core.

“has my baby missed me?” he whispered, his thumbs running along the waistband of your shorts as you nodded mindlessly, “i miss you too, so much. i bet you can’t even imagine.” he booped your nose.

“i hate when your gone,” you say quietly, slowly leaning into jaehyun’s touch and curling up impossibly close to his side.

jaehyun wrapped his arm around your shoulders and cooed, pecking the top of your head, “i know, i do too. i’ll try to make more time just for you. it’s hard with all the paperwork my boss makes me fill out, y’know… you remember, don’t you?”

you nod again, remembering when you and jaehyun were nothing more than coworkers. it was always so much fun chatting with him.

he smiles and his hand finds itself between your legs again, his middle finger tracing lines up and down the seam of your shorts. you gasp softly. it’d been a long time since you and jaehyun did this, and you clenched at the thought of having to accommodate to his size again.

“y’gonna let me make you feel good, doll?”

-

jaehyun entered you slowly, his arm cradling your head in preparation for his rougher, faster thrusts to come, so that you wouldn’t hit your head on the wall every time his hips snapped forward. he would never hurt his baby, at least not purposely. love comes with its sacrifices; he knew that all too well.

you stared up at him, dazed, like you were under his spell as you whimpered helplessly. in a strange way, you were. things felt easy. this life, under jaehyun’s captivity, felt easy. you had to remind yourself every time you let your mind drift back to when you were free. it was stressful having to care for yourself, having to stabilize yourself, provide for yourself, everything. jaehyun made it easy, because he did it all.

he shushed you, cooing as he planted kisses all over your face. soon, the hard part was over and he was fully inside. your heart, too, didn’t feel so empty anymore.

“oh, what’s this?”

your gaze drifts down to what had caught jaehyun’s eye. your tummy had bulged from his incomprehensible size. you mewl and hold onto his shoulders tighter. jaehyun leans down to kiss away the tears, old and new, off your face.

“my perfect girl. you were made for me, weren’t you?” he smiles down at you lovingly, like you were his most prized possession, a gift sent down by god himself.

his thrusts increase in speed and it causes your back to arch off the plush mattress, his cock now poking at your soft, suffocating walls. you felt like you were losing your mind more than ever. it was insane to feel this good, it shouldn’t be possible, but with jaehyun it was.

“j-jaehyu-“

he grabs your jaw, his grip firm yet gentle. he sighed softly as his thrusts slowed, “c’mon doll… you know better than to call me that.”

you whimper, shivering as you felt his hand press just above your pussy. you’d turned into a babbling mess, drooling and clinging and squirming. all you could feel, hear, and touch was jaehyun.

“tell me baby, how do you refer to me properly? or are you too dumb to remember?” jaehyun grins, his thumb tracing along your bottom lip, “do i gotta fuck y’some more? remind my princess some manners?”

you fervently shake your head, your eyes widening as it seemed your worst nightmare was about to manifest: disappointing him.

“d-daddy…”

jaehyun hums, satisfied, as he slips his thumb into your mouth.

“thaaat’s better, i knew you could do it,” his hips pick up in speed again, and you moan around his digit, your thumb circling around the shortest increment.

jaehyun grins as he feels your walls pulse around his cock, immediately recognizing the inevitable. he noticed how antsy and restless you got by this time, your little cunt eager to release around him. he loved it, loved watching his little girl grow oh so impatient and needy as she stared up at him with teary eyes.

“gonna come, princess?”

you nod quickly, and jaehyun chuckles.

“you’re so good to me, baby. the most perfect doll,” he pressed a kiss on your damp forehead, licking the sweat off his lips afterwards, “i couldn’t ever ask for more…” jaehyun rambled, nearly talking himself into an orgasm because he just loved to dote on you. he couldn’t believe he got ahold of someone like you, and now you were releasing around him.

you gurgled and drooled as jaehyun took his thumb out of your mouth, wanting to hear the desperate cries that came out of it while you came.

jaehyun followed shortly after, his glistening chest pressing against yours as he bit down on your juncture, groaning while he filled you with his seed. you nearly came again at the warmth that flooded your womb.

you almost dozed off before hearing the sound of a camera shutter, that in combination with the flash warranting you to flinch. you open your eyes to see jaehyun staring at the polaroid.

“fuck, you’re so beautiful…” he whispered to himself, enamored with the developing film that appeared slowly. you wondered how many he had collected by now.

“stay with me tonight… please?” you hated how clingy you sounded, but it was so cold down here, dark and eerily quiet. you just wanted to be held by him. it’d been so long.

jaehyun almost melts right there. he lays down and pulls the blankets over the two of you, “of course baby.”

“be a sweetheart a little longer, and maybe i’ll move your bed up to my room. how does that sound, doll?”

you look up at him with wide eyes, shining even in the dark as you smiled crookedly. you felt giddy at the mere thought. you nodded.

jaehyun chuckles and kisses you lovingly.

“sleep well, my angel.”

@yongvillage | ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

[river-of-wine]

I know I’ve mentioned this plenty of times before but I’m still kind of annoyed by how the fanbase just kind of completely declawed the four lords and placed the entirety of the responsibility for their wrongdoings on Mother Miranda.

The Baker family are great, I love them, they’re an incredible unit of antagonists who are intended to be very sympathetic, at least for the most part. Jack and Marguerite in particular have lost all control over their minds and their bodies, turning into extremely violent murderers and cannibals who threaten and attack their own family, kill anyone unfortunate enough to come across them and, especially in Marguerite’s case, lose complete autonomy over their own bodies. Marguerite turns into a walking bug hive who’s only purpose is to feed her family and birth her new children. Jack is an unstoppable murderous force of patriarchal violence who has so much fun chasing down and harming his victims, which in the Daughters DLC includes even his own daughter. The exception to this is obviously Lucas, who has been cured of his infection and his acting of his own free will. All of this is caused by Eveline, everything Jack and Marguerite do controlled by her, and yet Eveline is just as sympathetic as the rest of them. She’s a ten year old girl. Even Jack, who has watched his family and their victims suffer because of her infection, doesn’t seem to hold any of it against her. She just wants a family of her own, after all. It’s a complex and tragic situation.

The four lords, while I suppose being similar in structure, are not the Baker family. Not in dynamic, not in character, not in the kind of tragedy that they embody. I could talk for a while about just how completely different they are, but I don’t know if I really need to.

The Baker family are so tragic because they were just innocent bystanders trying to help a woman and a little girl they found in a shipwreck out in a storm. That’s the only reason they ended up in the situation that they were in. While the lords have similar origins, being victims of Mother Miranda’s experiments to bring her daughter Eva back, an important distinction between them is that in the case of the lords, all four of them are still acting of their own free will. Yes, Mother Miranda has undeniable power over them. She leads the cult they are part of, she has control over the village, she is their superior. However, I really dislike when every negative action by the lords is pushed onto her, as if the lords are not all grown adults who are for the most part acting independently of her.

With Alcina, she is the head of her own extremely brutal crimes. I think a lot of people have forgotten quite how horrifying the situations of the maidens are, possibly due to the prevalence shipping between Alcina and the maidens, and though we have minimal information what we do know is very frightening. Alcina uses her work force like livestock, draining them for their blood in a cellar full of horrific torture devices, and leaves their corpses to shamble around, armed and ready to attack any unwanted guests that have slipped out of the daughter’s clutches so that Alcina still doesn’t have to do her own dirty work, given how highly above everyone but Mother Miranda she appears to view herself as. While yes, Alcina does need human blood to survive, her methods are brutal, and none of this has been enforced upon her by Mother Miranda. Similarly to Jack on occasion, she takes a great deal of pleasure in hurting and attacking Ethan as he runs from her. Additionally, everything she does to Ethan is against Mother Miranda’s request. While yes, it is retaliation after he killed Bela, the part I often see people leave out is that Alcina is equally as upset that he entered her property and was attempting to steal from her, and she isn’t just after him to kill him.

Alcina has also been an active participant in aiding Mother Miranda with at least one experiment, considering that I’d how she got her daughters. While I’m sure her strong admiration for Mother Miranda and Mother Miranda’s power over her has absolutely had an affect in this, that’s not something I’ll deny, Alcina is still a grown woman and in her written entries about this shows no qualms about her participation in this. Her general attitude towards others, using young women as a good source and turning men into scarecrows, also leads me to believe that she does not exactly care who gets hurt or taken advantage of when it comes to her and Mother Miranda’s personal endeavours.

Donna and Moreau are the two more sympathetic people within the four lords, but they are not innocent. To start with Moreau, he’s desperate for Mother Miranda’s approval, as well as the other lords. He’s insecure and lonely, and he’s doing what he has been instructed by Mother Miranda when it comes to protecting the flask. However, he does also take quite a bit of joy in trapping Ethan in the reservoir and swimming after him with the intention to eat and kill him. Moreau though, given his conditions and circumstances, is the one I think is the least to blame for what he does.

Donna is hard to discuss because we know so little about her. Her parents are dead, as well as whoever Claudia was to her, she communicates through Angie and she can cause those who enter her house to hallucinate. According to Mother Miranda, Donna is severely mentally ill and that is what has made her an unfit vessel. I think a lot of people took this to mean that Donna is unaware of what she is doing, that the hallucinations she is showing Ethan are frightening, but after having been a fan of this game for years I just can’t agree with that anymore. Donna intentionally lures Ethan into her house with visions of his supposedly dead wife. Donna is going after fears she likely knows Ethan has, making him relive Mia’s death, take apart a mannequin of her, listen to her voice panic over something being horribly wrong with Rose, all building towards the horrifying baby that chases him through the house. There is no way Donna doesn’t understand how what she is showing Ethan is distressing, especially when you consider that, given how she can make herself appear and disappear at will within Ethan’s vision and that Angie is sitting in the hallways stationary and unspeaking, Donna was likely close by Ethan at all times and could see and hear his frightened reactions to what she was intentionally showing him.

Donna’s death is upsetting, but Ethan was not just chasing her down and killing her. Donna was attacking him, or at least she was controlling her dolls to do so. It’s still a hallucination, but Ethan doesn’t know that. When faced with a threat that is keeping you trapped and trying to end your life, you will likely try to get away or try to fight back, as Donna is doing to Ethan after he starts to attack her and Ethan is doing to Donna when he thinks his life is still in danger. I would also like to remind everybody that Donna communicates through Angie. What Angie is saying, that’s Donna. Angie doesn’t talk or move once she’s dead, it is Donna who controls her.

Lastly, Heisenberg. I think Heisenberg is the one of the four most entrenched in headcanons. Headcanons are fine, I am never in this post trying to suggest they aren’t, but my issue comes in when people use them to try and change the canon of the game. For example, it’s fine to believe that Heisenberg was experimented on by Mother Miranda as a child, but that isn’t canon. It’s fine to believe that Heisenberg mourned the deaths of his siblings, but that isn’t canon. The opposite is, with Heisenberg not viewing the cult as an actual family and being very openly mean to all three other lords, even Donna and Moreau who seemingly haven’t done anything to slight him. While his goal of killing another Miranda is a very understandable and sympathetic one given what she has done to him, using a six month old baby as a weapon and trying to bring her father into the mix only to try to get him killed when he denies him is not. I cannot overstate quite how little Heisenberg actually cared for Ethan and Rose’s safety when it came to his goal, and given that we are playing as Ethan, Rose is the priority.

Heisenberg has built an army of corpses he has presumably stolen and desecrated. This is kind of fucked up actually, and done completely independently of Mother Miranda. He also puts Ethan through a very dangerous lycan gauntlet before he even reaches the factory, which makes it even stranger to me that people seem to interpret Heisenberg’s deal as something that would have benefitted both him and Ethan and as if he ever had Ethan’s safety in mind.

All four of the lords have tragic aspects to them and there are definitely reasons to sympathise with all four. They’re victims of Mother Miranda, who knows they will all be killed. She wants them to be, giving her less to deal with by the time she has Eva back. They never meant anything to her. Not Alcina or Moreau, who were desperate for her attention. Not Donna, suffering from her unspecified but apparently severe mental illness. Not Heisenberg, who was seemingly her favourite creation. However, all of them are grown adults who do their own bad things independently of her.

And it’s fine to still like them. It’s fine for them to be your favourite character. It’s fine to have happy or nice headcanons about them or want to kiss them or be their friend or to want them to have survived. It’s fine to like characters who do shitty things. It’s to be expected in a game series like Resident Evil. It’s a horror game series. People are going to do bad things.

I just find it so boring when people take away all their bite. What makes a character like Lady Dimitrescu so fun it’s that she’s completely over the top. She’s campy and ridiculous, her castle layout makes no sense, she’s got three kids made of swarms of flies dressed like a set of goth triplets, she’s a lesbian who’s castle is full of naked statues of women, she turns into a big dragon and laughs maniacally while flying around and trying to eat you. She’s evil and it’s fun. It’s the same with Heisenberg. He’s a campy show off with a fun voice and a massive hammer he never actually uses. He can control metal. He looks like a cowboy. He pronounced Miranda in a funny way. He talks to you over an intercom while trying to get you killed. They’re fun and evil and they fight over who gets to kill Ethan like they’re two little kids. It’s absurd.

What makes a character like Donna so scary is that she’s silently working in the shadows, unassuming at a first glance and unseen for most of the time in her house. She is the least threatening of the four upon first glance, and yet she has undeniably the most frightening part of the game. Pretending as if Donna is completely unaware of what she is doing and babying her like she is an incapable child waters her down completely and takes away from the effectiveness of her character.

Villain characters are great! They’re very often the highlight of the story they are in, and they aren’t real! The four lords especially are often so completely exaggerated in what they do as well. It’s fine to like villains! It doesn’t make you bad! Characters can be bad people and you can still like them!

It’s just frustrating seeing a group of very fun and exciting villains, all designed with different aspects of horror, all over the top and campy and stupid and fun, all doing their own set of fucked up things, watered down to a set of poor innocent victims who have never done any wrong ever. If you want Jack and Marguerite, take Jack and Marguerite. Lady Dimitrescu loves killing and eating women and Karl Heisenberg turns corpses into soldiers. They’re bad people and they do comically exaggerated bad things. If you can’t stomach liking a character like that, horror is probably not the genre for you. Unless it’s Resident Evil 7, I suppose, but apparently tall women aren’t hot when it’s Marguerite Baker crawling on the walls.