#Cavern of Doom

[vintagerpg]

The Cavern of Doom (1983) is the third Zork pick-your-path book. Most of the basic features are the same: two kids, a boy and a girl, explore the Great Underground Empire in a fairly linear quest suitable for young readers. It plays fast — you can probably solve it in about 30 minutes, it has one optimal path (I think), about 15 ways to die surprisingly grisly deaths and one trap for cheaters. Plot-wise, we’re exploring the titular cavern in hopes of finding the elves Max and Fred. As they are missing, so is a good deal of humor that was found in the previous book.

This one makes up for that lack by being the most like a Zork videogame in structure. You need to collect objects to solve challenges and you pick your way through a dungeoncrawl that, for the first time in the series, actually feels like the GUE to me. There are lots of grue. We even get to see what they look like, thanks to Dell Harris’ illustrations. I’m not sure how I feel about that broadly, but I do appreciate how toothy they are (I also have a hard time believing this Dell Harris is the same as the last book’s Dell Harris, to the point that I am wondering if it is a pen name). Phil Parks delivers a cover that is less awesome than the last volume’s but, I think, suits the book, and the larger Zork universe, quite nicely.

If you’re gonna get one Zork pick-your-path that isn’t tied to nostalgia for the cover, this is probably it.

[cavernclaw]

I like him alot

[sinewcenser]

Absolutely disgusting as fuck guitar-less death doom.

[c7thetumbler]

Quick Game Reviews: September - December 2024

This is the game review post for the remaining 4 months I got too lazy to keep up with during the year! I'm going to skip my favorite game I played this year part for now, but I hope this provides some insight to someone somewhere.

Let's get it going!

Screenshot from my Gameplay

Colossal Caverns (Pikmin 2 mod)

^link to PikHacker's download site with all their mods.

Hot off my Super Mario Eclipse playthrough, I finally decided to give this a go! For those unaware, this is a Pikmin 2 hack that puts every boss, enemy, and treasure in a single, gigantic cave level and the challenge is to escape. The REAL challenge is to get all the treasure, and the REALLY INTENSE challenge it to defeat all the enemies. There are a number of customization options such as including the Onions underground, max Pikmin limit increase to 200, and some enemy health adjustment, but I would recommend you do those for one playthrough and then really try it without those changes so you really have to learn enemy behavior and feel how intense it can get.

This is a really fun hack, and I'd recommend it for Pikmin 2 vets. this isn't something you hop into if you've only played 4 though.

image stolen from a redditor

DOOM Eternal (Steam)

I'm a big OG Doom/Doom II fan, and Doom 2016 was pretty good, so I figured it was about time I played this single-player game.

Then I launched it in steam, already a layer of DRM that requires a login, and was immediately greeted with another login screen!

I uninstalled, may ask for a refund. Is it petty? Idk. The game may have a multiplayer component or online features, but there's 0 reason why I need to do that for a single player game. Hell, I feel like I have a pretty low bar given I've hooked up my Ubisoft account to Mario V Rabbids and Rayman, but that's also optional and the games work independent of it. I suspect if I looked for a pirated version, I could play this game without giving them my email address and logging in, so why are we doing this. The game doesn't even let me adjust options or take a screenshot without logging in

Splatoon 3: Grand Festival (Switch)

The final splatfest!

But not really!

This was actually a really cool in-game event. Not only did they extend the "finale" to the full 3 days and bring all 3 idol groups into play, they made an entirely new overworld map that adjusted and actively changed over the course of the three days.

The amount of love and polish that went into a very short, non-repeated in-game experience that fans from the past 10 years would absolutely enjoy is just unparalleled. In the first 2 days you could visit one of three stadiums which rotated which group was playing, but in the final day all three groups were performing together on the main stage with pyrotechnics and flying platforms and it was nuts. Over the course of the evening, the other venues actually caught fire and burned down while it continued, making it a more clear reference to Burning Man than it already was.

It did however fall to the typical downsides of a Splatfest in terms of gameplay. Even with three teams it was quite easy to get paired against your own team and have that entire battle not count towards your clout or your team score, and even though I played like 20 triple battles only 3 of them were against other teams. This is something of a long-running bug bear; I understand you want people to play frequently, but there should either be an option to say "Yes I will wait longer to fight against other teams" or a rewards incentive to play against your own team instead of just throwing it or being dissappointed when it happens. It also unfortunately suffers from the lack of matchmaking, and this was pretty clear when team past started getting prestige ranks in the double digits on day 2 vs a normal teams as well. That's a little trickier, as genuinely I can believe that people who picked Past are genuinely long-time players, but it's an unfortunate issue with competitive games with ladders.

The stage for the triple battles though was also cool. Personally I wasn't a big fan of it's layout, however if your team secured the Ultra Signal your idol group would actually come out and cheer you on, which was rad af. The whole event was just one big hypefest that really fit the style of the game, and the best send-off to date. I wish more games were able to do a big send-off like this rather than just slowly deteriorate and fall-oof, but that's an impossible standard and made me excited for the series' future.

Also, there was a Splatfest in October and they're still doing balance patches so it wasn't really a send-off but still

Image from download page

Super Mario and the Rainbow Stars (PC)

I forgot what pointed me to this game, but it's pretty good! definitely made by people who love the series and want to see a more cohesive world and Mario RPG level story inside a platformer. It's pretty fun and has a great amount of content despite only having 1 world so far!

Gameplay wise I do have some criticisms. The game tries to bring Mario Odyssey gameplay into a 2D platformer, and while sometimes that can work, it does feel a little out of place here. It's not bad, and the levels do a good job of showcasing it, but it feels a little out of place and I personally had issues with the movement options and the star throw at the same time.

Level design is another thing. I'm not sure if this was a limitation thing, a deliberate choice, or just coincidence, but basically every level has similar feel and recurring layouts. Specifically, you'll find yourself going up for a few jumps, then a part where you need to ground point or descend vertically, and then back up again in the next area. But the levels themselves aren't vertical, and in fact pretty limited in that direction, so seeing that same layout repeatedly makes it feel more like a fan game than a real one. It's difficult to describe, but picture the heartbeat line on an EKG and that's how your path typically seems to pan out. With this many movement options and gimmicks in the game, it would be cool if they took a more open-level style approach where you could skip some of these sections through some more technical, high jumps, branching paths, etc.

All that said though, it's still a very good fangame! Visuals are great, Music and Sound design are great, and there's a lot of love put into it. I'm hoping that the level design continues improving over time, and this could be a really iconic fangame.

Screenshot from the Steam Store Page

Spark the Electric Jester 2 (Steam)

This has been floating around my backlog for a while; I've tried it before but I got distracted by collectibles and didn't give it a real shot, so I figured I'd give it a go this time and just go through the game without obsessing.

Spark the Electric Jester is an indie game series that's based off of Sonic, and 2 is the first 3D one that builds off of Sonic Adventure 2's playstyle. It adds in combat as well, with combo building and timed parries which open up the attacker to your assault, but ultimately the game shines the most when it's just the classic Sonic 3D platforming.

Like real Sonic it's a little Janky; sometimes when you try and run up walls it doesn't quite stick right, some jumps are a bit strange, enemy targeting is finicky, but overall it's a fun time. The game itself is very short, taking me only 2.4 hours to beat between both my attempts, but I also didn't focus on doing the achievements and gathering the collectibles, of which each level has a few in their branching paths. Plot-wise, it suffers a little bit from taking itself a little too seriously and being a bit too complicated for my tastes, but that doesn't detract from the gameplay.

If you have a Sonic Adventure itch and this is on sale, it's worth a pick-up I'd say, but if you don't the game is just okay by its own merits. 3 is where the series really gets into its own.

Screenshot from the Steam store page

Spark the Electric Jester 3 (Steam)

This is like 2 but way better!

An actual, really well-polished love letter to Sonic Adventure 2, Spark 3 goes back to Spark being the main character and a less-linear level structure. Each level has a few challenges within them to keep you coming back and replaying, and the combat as a whole feels way better with some unlockable moves and even alternate characters to play as.

Again, the story is convoluted but you won't miss much if you skip straight to this one as they do a good job of recapping enough so you're not totally lost. I still think it takes itself a little to seriously, and I'm not a huge fan of how it gets near the end, but as a game it's a great experience.

Highly recommend this over the 2nd one for Sonic Adventure fans, though both are great games. The replayability and polish on this surpass even SA2 in those regards, imo.

Screenshot from Steam store page

Neon White (Steam)

Reminds me of Lovely Planet but with more polish and care placed into level design! I'm not too big a fan about how long the between-worlds sections can take with the plot, but I also haven't gotten very far in it.

Gameplay-wise, it's an FPS where you pick up cards to use guns/abilities to quickly defeat all the enemies and get to the end of a level as fast as you can. Replaying the level will open up other opportunities to get goodies or complete it faster by showing you a hint somewhere in the level that will save you enough time to get the highest rank. I really liked this game, but my attention span prevented me from getting very far. That's a me-problem though; this is a great pick-up for precision platforming and execution fans.

The Legend of Zelda: Echoes of Wisdom (Switch)

I don't know how I feel about this game to be honest. I mean, I really like it but after I was done I was torn between "this game dragged on" and "I wish there was more to do".

To get started, this is a Zelda game where you play as Zelda, and instead of attacking directly you use a magic wand to copy and paste items and enemies to attack other enemies and solve challenges. It's a very fun concept, and I think they executed it well, but it runs into a few problems. First, when you find items and summons that let you bypass multiple things, you end up only ever using those. These get mitigated after a while with a few rooms and bosses that require specific elements, heights, wind obstacles etc. to get past, but "grab spider and climb wall" is a fairly early game discovery and a faithful one throughout nearly the whole game.

Second, narratively the game could use some work. I like the idea that Link is silent through the whole game, canonically, however Zelda really shouldn't have been. A game from Zelda's perspective has a lot of unique potential to tell a familiar story from a new angle using its own gameplay, but what really seems to have happened is we got "what if Link didn't have items but instead was kirby, and then also you can be Link normally sometimes." The game certainly shines in a lot of places with clever puzzles and copy interactions, but Zelda being the main character isn't explored upon and feels more like the gimmick than the gameplay gimmick. That on top of the entire game being about people fawning over how cool Link is and nobody outside of the castle knowing the princess of Hyrule somehow really cements that she can be done better, Nintendo. This point is also tough to bring up because it could easily be misconstrued as me saying "why ruin this game by making me play as a girl, UGH" but I would like to stress that I'm definitely not making that point; I'm saying they picked a character who is always crucial to the plot and arching theme of every game and didn't use that to the game's advantage. Also, every other Zelda game you should've been able to play as a girl don't @ me

As for the good parts though, they did a good job of world and puzzle design despite the issues with dominant solutions. I did 100% the game and run through areas multiple times to discover fun puzzles I hadn't seen before and cool hidden things that I would've missed had I not been so thorough. Ultimately this is a good game and I'd recommend it, but if possible try and find a way to play a bit of it first before dropping full price on it, as it may not be for every LoZ fan.

Super Nintendo World (Universal Studios Hollywood)

That's right; I went to a REAL LIFE VIDEO GAME!

And it was pretty cool! I'll open up top with a few caveats though:

Universal Studios struggles in comparison to Disney when it comes to immersion in their theme-parks, with their employees being not so much in character as much as people who are trying to keep a theme park going. In most areas this is fine, but SNW's facade and experience necessitates a bit more character work than they're clearly paying these people for.

Universal Studios Hollywood is cramped for space since it's actually a functioning Studio with over 20 sound stages and in the middle of an incredibly cramped city. As a result, there is only 1 ride, vs Japan's 2 (soon 3) and Orlando's 2. I also doubt they'll be adding the Donkey Kong Country to it.

This land requires that you pay $42 for the power up band, as without it you can only ride one ride, and the minigames/interactable content don't do anything if you don't have one. For families that didn't realize this, this is a huge bummer for kids who get to see a bunch of other people having a blast hitting blocks and getting coins, only for those same blocks to do an empty thud if you don't have one.

The space is way too small and without other rides. Since it's clearly USH's biggest draw at the moment and the ride easily gets to over an hour long wait and the missions encourage you riding it several times, it makes for an overwhelmingly crowded and anxious experience.

That all being said, I had a fun time there. With the power-up band and a smart phone, there are over 132 stamps to collect, including secret interactables in the world, collecting keys and coins to fight Bowser Jr (the biggest minigame in the area), completing minigames such as an interactable block wall that will stop a thwomp from falling, hitting timers to keep a piranha plant asleep, and timing a pow block hit to knock a koopa shell into a key. It's a really cool, well-done immersive experience and I appreciate that they made the whole place a game rather than a reference.

That being said, the band interactions could use some work. The Mario Kart ride is an interactable, AR 3D shooting game where you use koopa shells you get from item blocks to try and beat bowser's team, and while it's fun in its own right, the visors aren't wide enough to get a good view of everything, and the employees make no effort to tell you where to scan your band so that the ride actually counts in your app. As a result I had some fun with the ride itself, but my progress was not tracked and I was left wanting to try again only to be met with the 75 minute wait time, which we weren't doing. This would be mitigated with a much bigger park; you can encourage guests to re-run the same rides over and over again if all of them had similar band interactions, but with just the one it really grinds it all to a halt. The employees not explaining band interactions was a recurring issue; you'll spend a lot of time wondering if you're doing it right for some minigames and you don't know that somethings don't count as being completed, like character meet-ups, unless you make a point to ask and they let you scan something specific.

All-in-all, it's a fun experience but there's not too much there unless you're a freak like me, and it could still use a lot of work. I had a good time though and would go again, but the park being restricted to such a small space with only one real ride limits its potential, and on the whole it's an expensive experience.

If you do go though, I would highly recommend getting the early pass and going on a Tues/Wed/Thursday; Those are the cheapest, least crowded times, and the early pass will let you get in the Mario Kart ride without a wait if you're there on time. Avoid any times near holidays of course

Super Mario Party Jamboree (Switch)

Super Mario Party gets a sequel!... I'm not sure how this is different branch than Superstars though. I guess more sub-modes and focus on switch-only motion controls? It's fine, that's a nitpick.

I'll start out by saying that its core Mario Party game mode is pretty good! Most board have their own gimmick, but as a whole it's pretty close to the style of Mario Party everyone knows and loves without trying to reinvent things to the point of over-complication. The inclusion of "Pro mode" is also nice, as it allows you to play solo without feeling like the computers are robbing you and makes every decision you make on the board actually mean something. I have yet to play this with friends, but this feels like a fun game night experience and a good entry in the series for sure.

I will say that pro-mode feels like a necessary option in this one though. Mario Party is known for having a lot of randomness, but this game in particular has a TON more minigames, random events, and just un-counter-able nonsense than Superstars did. It's a little frustrating because I want to play with more minigames, but a lot are dominated by what are basically that exploding bowser minigame in terms of luck. No idea why "Select a key, select a door, hope for the best" is in there.

It also boasts having a ton of minigames in its own right, which technically isn't wrong, but when you split it by game mode it comes up severely lacking. On the box it says there are over 100, but when you play the main mode, exclude the completely random ones, and while I try not to personally I understand that a large chunk of players exclude motion controls, You'll be seeing repeats within the same game over 10 turns, and there are really at most 40 available. That sucks! I feel like I speak for a lot of people when I say I don't mind them bringing back more mini-games from Superstars; they add more variety, are nostalgic, and genuinely people appreciate non-repetitiveness more than they would appreciate having "new" minigames that they end up seeing way too often.

In terms of some new mechanics, the free-roaming team mode and buddy system present in Island tour and then in Super Mario Party has been replace by a "Jamboree buddy" system. Roughly half the characters (The unique, non-minion ones) have the chance of appearing on the board, and passing them initiates a unique minigame that if you win lets them follow you for 3 turns and grants you special perks. Events will proc twice when you have them, including shops, coins from spaces, stars, and even Bowser spaces, which is a fun risk-reward feature. They can also be stolen after being won, which is a bit frustrating because all that takes is passing the player with them. Would've preferred a duel minigame, boo, and/or an item to challenge them instead. But regardless, the gimmick is fun and most of their special minigames are cool because they're uniquely tailored to the character. My main issue with this is that it would've been cool to have minigames for every character, but I understand that time constraints would make that difficult.

The lack of the previously mentioned team/partner modes is a little sad though. Those modes were definitely my favorite "new" game mode the series introduced, and the unique dice per character added some fun and strategy to the otherwise simplest aspect of the game: rolling the dice. I would've preferred it over a couple of the Game modes they added, which I'll get into.

Party-Planner Trek is their single player mode, where you select a character and wander across the 5 main board completing challenges and mini-games to collect stars, each board ending in a boss minigame where you team up with characters you may have found along the way. It fine as a game mode, not too exciting and introduces you to each board, but also not really that difficult or entertaining in its own right. It'll only take a couple hours to complete, and the story itself is pretty low stakes

Para-Troopa flight school has you holding the joy-cons out to your sides like wings and flapping/gliding with them to move around in game. Unfortunately this is where my experience with it gets in the way; I have essential tremors which unfortunately means that my small, constant shaking easily meses up the sensors and I have to make much bigger movements to compensate. It's not for me, and Toad's Item Factory I've not even tried for similar reasons. Rhythm Kitchen is also similar to a Super Mario Party Game Mode, but again I found it improperly reading movements I made so I'm just passing on all these.

Koopathlon is a fall-guys esque? game mode. Not sure if "A lot of players bumble around trying to get further than the rest" is a genre yet, but also it's a little different, like Super Mario 35 was. Basically you go against 19 other players and play 3 "solo" minigames in a row where you try and rack up more coins overall before a bowser minigame that can even the playing field more, as you're playing directly against the other players and if you get eliminated you get sent back more and more spaces depending on your current lead. The minigames then come back a difficulty level harder. It's fun, but not really worth more than a couple replays, in my opinion.

And then finally Bowser Kaboom Squad has you working as a group of 8 players trying to take down imposter bowser before 5 rounds are up, running around and breaking crates to load bombs into a canon while environmental enemies and bowser himself tries to take everyone out. This is the game mode other than the main one I spend the most time in. It's not too difficult or stressful, and I much prefer the cooperative nature of this rather than the chaoticness of Koopathlon, but again this suffers from a shallow mini-game pool and only 3 levels.

Thematically this game also suffers from being a recent Mario spin-off, where they're not allowed to stray far from the Mario formula. Indeed, every NPC is aa different color toad or a basic enemy with a hat, which makes the game a lot more bland when those characters are already playable. It's frustrating that in the Gamecube era they were very willing to embrace the variety of wacky characters they had like Piantas and wacky hosts, but after Odyssey, 3D world, Wonder, all the Luigi's Mansions, Princess Peach Showtime, and their RPG games we're back to "Kamek is the host, everyone is a toad or bad guy, and we made a fake Bowser." The Mario world has a lot of creative things in it; please start using them

Overall this sounds like a bad review, but I still quite enjoyed it as a Mario Party game. I think Superstars is still a better core Mario-party experience, but this definitely stands up in it's own right. But if you're looking for a lot more variety in minigames, I'd maybe pick this one up on sale or something later down the line.

Screenshot from the Steam store page

Shadow Generations (Steam)

Ohey, the best 3D Sonic game, which previously I would've qualified since Generations, but it's EVEN BETTER?

I had a lot of things on a Wishlist for a Sonic Generations remake/sequel, but I wouldn't have ever said "side expansion about Shadow" as one of them. But lo, it was a wonderful decision! Plotwise, the story is somewhat hampered by the fact that it takes place before Lost World, meaning nothing can substantially change with Shadow's character/ knowledge in future games like Forces, but they did a great job with his characterization none the less. His voice actor, whose been on the job for a while, still feels like he's trying just a bit too hard to be edgy, but not so bad that it detracts from everything more than just being like "Haha, edgehog"

Gameplay wise it's a vast improvement over the baseline Generations. It's in a different engine (more on that in the next review), but it's close enough to stay familiar while also being much smoother. Shadow's Doom powers add the sort of progression that Sonic's been flubbing with for quite some time, offering options that both improve movement and attacks in ways that allow you to properly branch paths in ways more interesting than "did you jump when the spring wasn't visible on the screen" that Generations liked to do.

Length wise, it's also pretty decent. I would say that I would've liked one more "world", something like Prison Island from Shadow the Hedgehog and a boss fight with a GUN robot. It was actually surprising that that game didn't get any level representation, and they opted to instead shove Radical Highway in every level. It was the first level you play as him in the series, but Doom being like "That's some nice platforming you're doing, shame if it were suddenly RADICAL HIGHWAY" every time got old. I would've rather they stuck with themes in the level, like Rail Canyon could shift to have weird gravity and parts from Mystic Manor, The ark could have you planet hopping like you did in the Rouge/Knuckles levels, Forces could've had the ruby fucking with everything. It would be more novel anyway.

But for those who like the boost style gameplay of 3D Sonic games, this is the best outing yet and worth picking up for $30 at least. If you've not played the original Generations, this is a great bundle.

Screenshot from the Steam store page

Sonic X Shadow Generations (Steam)

This is for the "remake" part of the bundle, which is just a slightly updated Sonic Generations. I did 100% both of the games in here.

I consider these to be separate games mostly because even the game considers them to be separate. Instead of remaking Sonic Generations in the engine they had access to, they really only did some slight, almost mod-like changes to the version of Sonic Generations that was already available on steam to account for Sonic being an asshole to Amy (for literally no reason, originally framing Sonic shoving his hand in her face to talk to tails as "cool", so a good change actually) and then plot changes for Shadow Generations to fit better in. This version of Sonic Generations is then launched after you select it in the starting menu, as if it was a launcher itself.

On the one hand, I'm okay with this because it was likely a rights/age of the engine issue that prevented them from updating the game significantly or remaking it entirely in the new engine. On the other... Modders have used Generations as the base for like 12 years now? It would've been cool to see them add in more levels, if only just the 3DS levels that now are unplayable through any modern means. Granted, the 3DS levels weren't good, but they had game representation in there that's now just completely lost.

Adding in new levels would've also been nice. Sega re-used, and will continue to re-use assets from the Sonic Generations, so there's justification for adding more substantial content from games that are overwhelmingly popular in the series and were missing from the original, ie anything from Advanced, Rush, 3D Blast, to newer games that never made it to 3D like Mania.

Gameplay wise, it's still pretty good. It definitely shows some of its age with level and mission design, but overall it was the best 3D Sonic experience since Adventure 2, and then undefeated until Shadow Generations in my mind.

I would recommend picking it up if you don't own Sonic Generations anyway, but if you've played it at all, especially recently, don't buy it for Sonic Generations; Buy it for Shadow

Screenshot from Steam store page

Sonic Origins (Steam)

So now I'm on a Sonic kick, and while I waited a while to pick this collection due to its price and also misleading release, I'm glad I did now the plus version is out and it was on sale.

Full disclosure, I'd never actually 100% CD and 3 & Knuckles. CD was a bit to complex for me (and I had no idea you had to go back in time and destroy the generators on every level), and I only ever had &Knuckles to play with originally. The removal of lives (optional) and the ability to use medals to replay levels and specials stages really allows for exploration of levels without fearing losing all your progress, and to makes a much more enjoyable experience on the whole. The music they had to replace is definitely worse than the originals, but easily overlooked. Otherwise, the games play well, the inclusion of Amy was a good choice (though I would've liked to have seen more classic characters for the price) and the other quality of life features are good as well. The 10 Game Gear games are nice, but none of them are really that memorable or play well on their own so that's passable.

If this is on sale for $5-10 and you haven't played all these games to death, I'd pick it up, but if you own these games in another form this is certainly a more polished way of enjoying them but nothing to drop too much on

Image from srb2 website

Sonic Robo Blast 2 (PC)

After an attempt to revisit Forces to continue my Sonic 100% streak up to 7, I decided to pick up one of the most beloved Sonic fangames which started out as a DOOM mod (and I think still is? I didn't research this tbh).

Overall I'd say it's pretty fun; the multitude of characters to play as cool and the levels feel more or less true to what a 3D classic sonic would be. I however didn't finish it, as I kept getting frustrated with the thok move, camera, and controls, and after all those 100%'s I kept needing to restart to find those chaos emeralds. Ultimately, I made the experience worse for myself to achieve an arbitrary goal.

The game is free and a really fun fangame, so give it a try but also understand the controls and movement aren't for everyone

Screenshot from my only god pack pull so far

Pokemon TCG Pocket (Android)

I hate Gacha Games. Blind Boxes are gambling. Therefore, this blind box F2P game is the worst thing I've ever downloaded on my phone.

Except it's not? I really can't explain it past Nostalgia for when I was 5 collecting Pokemon cards, especially since I suck at battling as much now as I did then, but there's just something cool about collecting all the pokemon and seeing all the cool card art. I am not immune to the dopamine rush of opening 2 card packs a day and a 1/5 chance of picking from friend's packs.

Gameplay wise it's a little simpler than the in-person game, but as a result smaller balance issues make greater impacts. In most cases for example, it's much better to get tails on the initial coin flip to go second, as the energy advantage is usually way more useful that the evolution advantage that the first player gets on turn 3. Also, a large number of decks rely on coin flips going well, and that can get frustrating very quickly when you're already relying on card draws being in your favor.

This game is a dangerous gateway drug into getting into TCGs for real. Use responsibly, and understand that when you drop your first buck on any gambling game you have crossed the biggest line to cross and it will be hard if not impossible to go back.

Mario & Luigi: Brothership (Switch)

I was so excited to see the series not only return, but in stylized 3D! I was very concerned this series was dead after the studio shut down.

That being said, this one is just... alright. The way it's structured with the constant return to hub and the disjointed islands is not doing it any favors. It might be more... "streamlined" I suppose, but what I really liked about the series was for the most part the world was interesting to explore and really bizarre and wacky. With every dungeon essentially being a rather small island among a vast, mostly empty ocean, it kinda feels a bit shallow.

It also unfortunately suffers from the issues that prevented Dream Team from being on of the greats, mainly the constant tutorials all the way up to the final boss and cutscenes explaining what just clearly happened on screen to you in case you weren't playing during the playable section where you did the thing.

Gameplay wise it's pretty solid; It can get pretty repetitive, especially in the first half the game when you're missing a lot of your kit and mainly just focus on jump attacks. But it's a M&L game, so even that feels really solid, and the battle plug system also adds a lot to the game. The characterization of Bowser, Jr., and his minions is also really solid.

Overall this game suffers from dragging on way too long, which I can't even say is because it's just too long a game or the dialogue and constant explanations really stretch it for all it's worth. I'd place this below Dream Team, as not a bad game but one with a number of flaws preventing it from being good. Worth a pick-up if it ever goes on sale, but also not a necessary experience like Superstar Saga, SMRPG, or TTYD.

Official Update Artwork by Hibachi (@HibachiX1)

Dead Estate: GOOD NIGHT! (Steam)

The final update for this game! I decided now would be as good a time as ever to catch up on those achievements. I never did, but only because of Assignment Anya (the last update I covered earlier this year).

This update adds a Dream route, which include 4 floors, a bonus floor that can appear in the main route, and some insane bosses leading to a unique ending for each characters and even more costumes! It's a really solid cap on the game and a great note to end on; I thoroughly enjoyed almost every moment with it.

If you've not picked up Dead Estate yet, it's now "complete" and definitely worth the purchase. If it's been a while, it''s worth a revisit (but warm up on some basic runs and challenges first)

Screenshot from the Steam store page

ATLYSS (Steam)

Once again it's proven that randy furries can make some of the best content known to man (I don't know if the creators of this, Pseudoregalia, or Dust an Elysian Tale are horny furries it's a joke I should probably delete this when I proofread it).

Atlyss is a Diablo-like game combined with a 3D platformer, where you can pick one of 6 races and then 3 classes to get a variety of skills, weapons, and attacks to overcome enemies, dungeons, and complete quests. It's very fun despite only having 2 dungeons in it so far, and even better when you grab a friend or few to do some dungeon runs. I'm very excited to see where the game goes!

This game really took off of course because of its character customization, which lets you slide bars all the way to the right to get absurd proportions and wear some pretty thirsty clothes. That being said, while its character designs are definitely what you would expect with a game that lets you do that, the amount of options lets you create some really cool looking characters. The game even makes a point to give you scrolls that let you learn the skills other races have innately pretty early on, so there's really no reason not to make your favorite character look how they want and then play them exactly how you want (because imp's life drain is insanely powerful)

You could wait for more content, but honestly there's a good 8 hours in there right now to mess around with a some built in replay ability, I very much recommend this one

Screenshot from the Steam store page

UFO 50 (Steam)

I'm gonna have a couple controversial reviews on this list I think, but maybe not too controversial.

This is a collection of NES style games, with on overarching narrative about this being a found classic console with these 50 games released in order in the 80s. The games themselves for the most part feel very modern in a way that's hard to describe. They lack that classic jank that NES games used to have, like the sprite limit flicker, bad hitboxes in ice climbers, etc that make it just enough not to hit my nostalgia buttons but also mechanics that are much more polished overall.

Total I think I played 15 games before I put this one down. Each game is actually a real game in its own right, ranging from RPGs, arcade style games, platformers, puzzle games, even some strategy games in there. I've definitely spent a lot more time in some games than others, but this is unfortunately where I run into a personal problem when it comes to compilation games. If I'm not excited to try every game in the bundle, I often time abandon it pretty quickly.

I understand this is a me problem and I may have just not found the crazy good ones yet, but these games for the most part all just felt like fine. None of them really grabbed me except one of the later ones where you play as a Spaceman and gather resources like the top-down sections in Blaster Master, but even that was hindered by the design choice to make you wait for meat to regen in your town before you can explore more.

Overall, I can tell a lot of love went into this compilation and i'm not faulting it for that. Personally, I just couldn't get too into a lot of these games in the modern era, and because of that I ended up dropping this compilation early. Your mileage may very!

Screenshot from Steam store page

Black Mesa (Steam)

The Half-Life 2 update that made it workshop compatible and contain every Episode reminded me of this! But mostly my friend Blossom sharing funny videos of it actually.

I actually wasn't a huge fan of original half-life that much; I find the sequel nails the tone and game feel a lot better, but again it's not bad. Certainly this is the definitive way to play the original, and worth picking up for that alone, but if you didn't like the OG half-life you're not going to get much mileage out of this

Screenshot from Steam store page

Marvel Rivals (Steam)

Overwatch but better! I think. It's very easy to get overwhelmed in this game, and clearly takes a lot of time to understand character dynamics and what is even going on, but honestly I enjoyed what little time I spent with this way, waaaaaaay more than any time I spent with Overwatch. Sniping also doesn't seem to be nearly as prevalent; a huge plus for people like me who, on top of knowing that snipers take away any fun from a game that balances around weapon strength/reload speed/range, are correct.

There's clearly some balancing issues, but overall since I'm never going to be playing competitive it's just a good time and I can look past that.

It scratches that hero shooter itch without fomo or demanding so much of your time. Definitely worth a try (with friends)

Screenshot from DLC Steam store page

Disney Dreamlight Valley: Storybook Vale (Switch)

This is again what my Sister plays when she visits (or I visit her), so this is from the perspective of someone who watches her play and occasionally when she doesn't complete timed events finishes those up after the visits.

I'll open up by saying that the game definitely runs a lot better overall. Granted, it's very far from perfect, but the game crashes are now few and far between, slowdown is a lot less common, the music no longer skips, and a lot of item spawning issues have been fixed. Granted, the slowdowns are still there, loading times are frankly unacceptable still, and the item management system still needs to be reworked to prevent forced loading screens if they're going to be this long, but it's good progress.

This expansion specifically adds a whole new land in the form of the Storybook vale, a world shaped vaguely like a book that has 3 biomes: a ruined library in the fall, a golden Greek paradise based off of Hercules, and a fairytale forest with references to Alice in Wonderland and Sleeping Beauty. It adds in 3 new befriendable characters (will like increase to 5 later), Merida from Brave, Flynn from Tangled, and the star of the show Hades from Hercules.

The lands themselves are much better design, going from geometric walls and winding paths found in the base game and last expansion to much larger, more detailed and open areas that allow you to see further into the distance and actually take in the sightlines. It also adds in a new mechanic, a net, which you use to gather Snippets (small creatures made out of paper) which you then use to rebuild a book and create art to advance the plot.

On the whole, it's more of the same gameplay loop but better polished. It's very easy to lose yourself running around and doing tasks, but since my sister isn't one for decorating the world that specific large aspect of the game gets lost.

The new characters are neat, though I've not seen Brave myself. Flynn is also an odd choice, as now all three main characters from Tangled, what I thought was one of Disney's weakest movies, are now present in the game when other majorly successful movies like Alice in Wonderland and 101 Dalmatians are nowhere to be seen.

My older reviews still mostly stand in terms of recommending this game at all, but the expansion offers a fair amount of new content and promises to release more throughout the year so it's not a bad game.

Luigi's Mansion 2 HD (Switch)

Aight so I have major beef with this one, to the point where I kinda want to do an extensive write-up on all the switch ports/remasters that Nintendo's done over the past 7 years. Their record kinda sucks but this is the worst by far.

This is just a straight port of Luigi's Mansion Dark Moon on the 3DS. It can only technically be called HD because of the resolution, but other than that, some lighting, and a few specific textures I cannot tell the difference between the two. Additionally, they did not fix any of the animations, something that's forgivable on the 3DS because the resolution's so small and it's a tiny console, but when you see animations in cutscenes just run out and characters freeze on the big screen it's frankly unacceptable to call this "HD." In a lot of games I review, I talk about how their jank is part of the charm, but this isn't just jank, it looks bad and lazy.

As far as new features: There aren't any. This game is virtually identical to the 3DS original, except there isn't 3D. I know a lot of people didn't like the 3D on that console, but I loved it and consider it a feature taken out. So to me, this is the equivalent of an upscaling mod on your PC. For nearly twice the price the game was 11 years ago. Absurd.

Gameplay wise, this is the weakest entry in the series by a mile. The constant interruptions from E. Gadd and the mission structure make it really difficult to get into the gameplay and environments since you're constantly being told what wacky thing just happened on screen or just straight up yanked out of the level back to the hub. It was again acceptable at the time because portable games typically get different experiences than you would expect from a home console, but on a home console it's just not an engaging experience.

I got this as a gift, and I spent the whole time playing thinking about how much a waste of money this was. Skip it and get Luigi's Mansion 3 if you haven't

Screenshot from the Steam store page

Awaria (Steam)

From the makers of Helltaker comes Helltaker but as a fast-paced arcade-like game instead! You play as a repair-lady who runs around between generators and generator part dispensers to fix them while being assaulted by ghost ladies with strange powers related to how they died. Then you smooch them at the end of each level. Pretty simple, but really addictive and easily overwhelming as parts take time to generate, you have a limited amount of time to fix generators, and you can only hold 2 items at once. As it introduces parts that take other parts to generate, it really forces you to strategize instantaneously while running around and dodging like a madman.

The difficulty is quite up there, but it wasn't anything insurmountable and I played it on Hard mode by default, which you don't have to do of course. I would highly recommend giving this one a go; it's another labor of love and insanely fun for the time you spend with it. Also it's free

Screenshot from Steam store page

Balatro (Steam)

I'm really bad at poker and I've only gotten to like Ante 4? in a run so far and that felt like a lot of luck by getting insane straight multipliers and then losing when I couldn't make a straight. Other than that, I really don't get it; it seems like a distilled rogue-lite in that they've removed core gameplay elements and turned it from a platformer/shooter/deckbuilder etc. to just playing cards, and while I typically enjoy that style of gameplay I need more than that out of a game. It just genuinely feels like luck.

Personally I would skip this, but it's also one of the most bought, played, and well-received games of 2024 so like my opinion's an outlier here.

Screenshot from Steam store page

Tower Factory (Steam Early Access)

This is a really neat idea! Basically a mix between your standard Tower Defense game and your endless factory maker (Satisfactory, Factorio, etc.) You basically have to create and optimize factory buildings and conveyor belts to get the resources you need, process them into different resources, and then use those top create the towers to defend this.

While doing this, you need to create light towers to further unlock the map and find Light Crystals, which you then use to defeat the wizard tower (enemy spawn point) which you also have to find. Maps are randomly generated, with your resource pools, obelisks that power up adjacent towers, resource/coin chests, and light crystals scatter across the map. This allows for your replays to be different every time each level, of which there are 4, progressively harder ones so far.

Despite not seeming like a lot, the replayability is high and in fact key, because you start off with very few towers and resources and may end up losing your first bout on each level, gaining coins depending on your performance at the end of the level. These coins can then be used to permanently upgrade and unlock new towers'/factory components to help you perform better on the next run.

It's pretty fun! It can get really hectic jumping between the two halves of the game, especially since resource pools can run out and you may need to refactor your factory during an intense wave, but the actual TD aspects of it are pretty simple so it's not overwhelming. It unfortunately falls into the pitfall that almost every genre crossover game has however, where if the audiences for both were a Venn diagram, the only people who would really get into the game would be at the intersection of both genres, not pools from both sides. The TD aspect is pretty simple, and the factory aspect seems so as well, and they have to be so in the intense moments you're not overwhelmed fine tuning either. Again, I like it, but it's very easy to tell it's not for everyone.

Keep in mind it's early access, but if you like TD and Factory games this might be worth a pick-up! or at least a follow to see when it nears completion if Early Access is understandably not your thing. I picked it up in the Steam winter sale.

And that's it! thank you for reading this far, and have a great 2025!

[ajdrawshq]

why does pmd show us a volcano time gear and then never do anything with that. that time gear doesnt even exist bc all 5 already have known locations. what was that

[the-world-spear]

why do i hear boss music

you know it was a last-hour rush when i stopped drawing anything with proper composure and start dishing out scribbled memes like this (and also speedrunning simple-shaped characters)

Attack for SARCASTICEXISTENCE on Art Fight! Title has link to the same post on-site

[furiouslysleepinggreen]

I love indie horror games, no not the soulless mascot ones, those ones where it’s like, hey dude you gotta hunt a bunch of squirrels in order to make your dead skinless wife beautiful again by covering her headless body with them

[psalidodont]

'' The Hellbender, dreadful and dangerous dragons, sometimes called ''Salamanders'' or ''Serpents'' due their long, almost endless bodies. They're flightless, relying only on their multiple legs to slither and crawl across the marshes they inhabit. During the day, they prefer to slack and rest, disgustingly lazy for what's considered a blood thirsty demon... during the night, however, Hellbenders prowl the swamps and caverns. Whatever steps on that tail is doomed to perish, as the only thing it'll see before its over real quick is the gaping jaws of the devil itself. Hellbenders are blind and deaf, but their sense of smell is acute. While they are incapable of fire breathing or lack any venom, they're feared amongst Hunter kind, their bite can easily crush bone and potentially turn anyone into a pile of disfigured flesh and guts. Avoid at all costs if alone''

[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.

[cavernclaw]

doom patrol yay ❤️.

[dragongirlpoet]

Dark Signs 2

Pt I I Pt III

Alucard x you

Synopsis: You asked Alucard for a favour. Now you have to be careful what you wished for. "To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster" - Vampire Hunter D

TW: Dark fantasy, horror & gore elements, blood, SMUT (Alucard is feral in this one) Explicit 🔞 I Words: 3.5k

Also to @skychaser777 hope you can sleep after this 😉

The hollow stone walls echoed my shaky breaths, caving them in, the thumping of my heart violent in my ears. My skin was pricked with goosebumps, foreboding dire dwellings. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Absurd question, considering everything was inherently far from right. 

There had only been one instance where I felt unsafe with Adrian. 

Located in the underbelly of Wallachia was a forgotten catacomb, a labyrinth where the dead and undead alike convened. I had been extracting bile from slaughtered night creatures, told to render powerful salves when mixed with mint, myrrh and…other herbs. 

Body sticky with sweat and hands grimy from reaching into revolting guts, I was almost to my fifth vial when a guttural growl stopped me dead in my tracks. 

From the marrows of a tunnel, a numbing cold, laced with strangled gnawing, reverberated through the passageways.

Every fibre of my being told me to run, alas I had all but the impudence of a child. Unsheathing my iron dagger, ensorcelled to wound even the most vile, I treaded warily towards my impending doom.  

The sight that awaited me was sickening. Crouched over bodies upon bodies of night creatures was a pallid, mangled man? His face was buried in their carcasses, marring at their flesh, lapping at their blood. 

Before I could take another breath, the man turned, face smeared with ravaged viscera and foul, curdled blood. He had hair like the purest wisps of wheat and eyes like dark, desecrated graves. 

I choked back a gasp.

“You foolish, foolish girl. You are not prepared for the evil that lurks here, feeds here..” his bellow was deafening, diabolical. Blood spilled from his fangs, splaying his torso tainted with innards and rotten flesh.

“Wh..who are…you?” I paced backwards as he stalked towards me.

“You don’t know who I am? Most fascinating…” he offered a smile so sinister, as if he had stumbled upon the most naive of fools he was soon to devour.

“I am the sun…rain…the darkness. I am sin made flesh and I am whom you should most fear. I am Alucard, son of Vlad Dracula Tepes.”

A loud “smash” rattled through the room as I retreated into our wooden dresser, knocking over a prized hourglass Alucard so often used to practise his script. The pair of glowering molten eyes trailed me — never blinking, burning caverns into my soul. 

I shifted my gaze downwards to avoid stepping into glass, but that was regrettably the least of my worries. Lifting my stare, those eyes were gone — quick as spectres passing through dimensions. 

Our chamber fell into a boundless black, and my human sight could not adjust acutely enough to the darkness. I flailed my arms about willing to grasp onto anything that could give me some bearing. Anxiety crept through me like poison ivy ensnaring a forsaken home. 

“Adrian? Stop this please! This isn’t funny.” The volatile rhythm of my heart suddenly became too loud, too unbearable. 

No amount of breaths could repress my violent trembling. A faint flicker from the corner caught my eye — Alucard’s heirloom sword. If his magical estoc was there…he is still in the room with me. 

The hairs on my arms shot up, little by little.

Out of nowhere, forceful, ice cold hands prised around my throat, yanking me out of my state of terror. From behind, Alucard, voice grave like a thousand infernal souls, growled into my ear, 

“Do you understand the gravity of what you’re asking?”

Whether it was fear or the vice-like grip around my neck, I couldn’t speak.

“Answer me.” 

He clamped tighter.

”Ye…yesss,” I wasn’t telling a lie. 

“Then let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

One minute I was in Alucard’s death grip, the next I was shoved, hard, into the stone wall, my face chafing against the abrasive mortar. I winced at the pain.

“You’re hurting me, Adrian!” 

Behind, he tightened his grip on my wrists, binding them into the small of my back. 

“Am I? Ohh…but you like danger, don’t you?...His other hand reached down to unfasten his pants, his erect cock sliding out… “You are drawn to the darkness, just as I am.” 

He trailed the words up and down my neck, pausing ever so subtly to savour the scent of blood in my veins. 

A small bead of sweat started trickling down my face…no, no, it was blood — from my collision with the wall.

Alucard went eerily still again. I felt a shift in his countenance, like a malevolent cloud obliterating sunshine. 

He was hungry.

With one knee, he forced my legs apart and hauled my nightdress up, my backside fully exposed. I could feel the tip of his length against my rear — throbbing, impatient. He snaked his hands all over my naked body, grabbing at my breasts, digging into my thighs. 

The scent of my blood set his every carnal need aflame. 

Adrian had always been prudent — he would excuse himself at the slightest scent of my exposed blood, isolating himself in the castle dungeons for hours, as if he deserved it. Deserved to be punished for his beastly urges, deserved to be condemned for being born a monster. 

Every blood-month I had would send him away for days — “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve seen what I become when I feed… I’ll just be hunting, it’d be just a few days, and your cycle would end when I’m back,” he would say with a smile. A sad smile.

And I was utterly tired and heartbroken that my Adrian, so kind and full of love, would admonish himself, rip his spirit to shreds, for a fate that had been unfairly handed to him. I was going to end this, tonight.

Alucard nuzzled his face into my hair, taking in all my smells, heaving. His body was unyielding against mine — elegant marble against bewitching velvet. I could hear his vampiric heartbeat ringing in his ears, drowning out all sense of reason. He was an animal in heat. 

“You know I cannot control myself around you. And you know what your blood does to me… Do you know how long I haven’t fed?” 

His writhing cock was brandishing my cunt, starving for my hole.

“Do you know I think about what it’s like to have your blood in my veins? How much I want it, need it, desire it. 

How much I want my blood in you. And you ask this of me, tonight, when I’m sitting at the precipice of hunger and lust…”

There was a sharp intake of breath. 

“Hmmm you don’t know what’s coming for you. Once I do this there’s no turning back. 

Do you know how long I’ve been holding out for you? To be better for you. And now you ask this of me…”

At that he yanked at my hair, forcing my head to fall back. The red trace on my cheeks bowed complete to his mercy. 

Staring defiantly into his eyes, I said, “Do it, Adrian. I want you to.” 

Danger, danger.

A devious smile tugged at his lips. Alucard skimmed my neck with his mouth, bruising it with reckless kisses and parlous nips. He moved precariously to suck at the aquamarine veins running down my breasts, licking slow circles about my nipples. He was a wolf dallying with his food. 

A true vampire, hedonistic even in the slightest of pursuits, moving inevitably to the blood trail. He had waited so long for this. 

Alucard pushed his lips delicately into my face, afraid of spilling even the smallest of drops. My blood was a sacred river, a bath of worship he would praise forever. Shaking, he ravened the scarlet off my face, sucking at the open cut, willing for more. 

He was a mixture of muffled moans and enthralled ecstacy.

It was exhaultant. I adored being able to give Adrian what he most craved. 

Drinking in more than necessary, the whites of his eyes were no longer — entire sockets now overtaken with crepuscular crypts darker than the blood moon that hung outside.

Alucard’s cock twitched beneath me, length growing harder and bigger by the second. Grunting, he pumped his sex and slid it against my pussy. I was light-headed with anticipation, but he had merely fondled my folds, prodding at my entrance, testing to see how wet I was.

Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps a dissolute part of me yearned for the darkness, but what I’d wanted most of all was to know that I had years, centuries — immortality, to be with Adrian. 

Head over my shoulder with eyes like lacquered obsidians, he interlaced his fingers with mine, bringing them down to press at my clit. Flagging off from my most sensitive spot, he traced them up my body, slowly, torturously. 

“I wonder…” fingers caressing my abdomen… “how far up…” I gasped as he adjusted them higher… “my cock will go when I’m deep inside you…” Alas settling on a spot above my navel.

A sacred river spawned between my legs. 

Incapable of restraint any longer, I reached back to stroke his shaft, thumb stimulating his tip until his pre-load creamed my fingers. I lathered his fluids, relishing in the feel of his hallowed flesh tethered to my hands. 

“Fuuuck.” Alucard bristled against my touch, face buried in my neck. Below, he was thrusting at my entrance, not yet entering, readying me for his carnal devotion. 

”Adrian please, I need you. I want you inside…”  

His last thread of resolve snapped. He rammed his boner into me from behind, stretching me, engulfing me. My tender walls were a haven to his brutal thrusts, welcoming him in. Cock barely to his hilt, he spread my bottocks apart, plunging his engorged member in. 

“Ahh…ahh…” I whimpered, hands braced on the wall. 

“How are you still so tight…” he hissed, enraged he couldn’t yet feel all of me.

My fingers weaved into his hair, tugging as I leaned further back into him. This feral urge, I craved it. It was scarce enough to satiate the searing lust in me, so I ground impiously against his length like the unholy girl he wanted me to be. 

Tonight, he was to have his way. He was the nefarious overlord and I was but a malleable zealot. My hips were firmly held down by his hands — he wanted to control my rhythm. I was, afterall, his submissive little prey. 

Alucard forced his cum-stained fingers into my mouth, swirling them about the insides of my cheeks, wresting in and out of my plush lips. I licked at them greedily, suckling on his taste. He was so deft — hands and length penetrating me in a lyrical sync, sating me above and below.

I gagged when he stuck his fingers further down, my throat wedging tight. Tears rimmed my eyes but I continued hollowing my cheeks, head bobbing. “Such a good girl…” praising as he brushed hair off my face. I was to appear immaculate while being fucked indecent.

Hypnotised by his bulge assaulting my hole, I bit sinfully on his index, tearing his skin. He pulled out from my mouth, eyes transfixed on the blot of blood. 

“You’re being a naughty little lamb tonight…” His smile was insidious, like a serpent suffocating its meal.

My vampire smothered his blood over my parted lips. My tongue grazed over it, wiping it clean like I was the one writhing in blood lust. What I did had Alucard under a powerful spell. He plummeted his smug into me, our kisses heedless, crashing into each other in depraved lust. 

We sucked and bit them swollen, both of us unrestrained and shameless of our monstrous love. Under, he continued hammering his heat into me, hand pushing my cunt back to swallow more of him.

Alucard was never one to trifle with a perfect opportunity. Hands at his favourite spot, he rubbed his digits forcefully at all the places his cock didn’t already fill. My knees buckled at once from overstimulation. 

“Stay.” He landed a firm smack onto my soaking sex… “Still.”

“Or I won’t let you cum.” An order.

He bent me over, my backside raised to allow him easy entry. I compelled my wobbly legs to stand, muscles quivering at my bones.

“Good. Hands on the wall.” 

Like his obedient little lamb, I hoisted my arms on the cold stone, squeezing taut around my feral wolf.

I was begging, moaning his name, my being in complete disarray.

Content with how tight I was clenching around his shaft, Alucard drove his erection mercilessly into me, pounding so hard I was lifted off the ground. 

I cried out in pleasure and pain. “Adrian! Adrian please…”

“You like it when I’m rough with you, baby? You want me to turn you, and fucking you senseless comes with it,” he spat in between thrusts, dragging hair away from my ears to ascertain I could hear him loud and clear. 

I was so deliciously filled my lewdness spilled out onto my legs. Paths of sweet nectar trickled down my trembling thighs, glazing his girth with my wicked desire. 

I was so close.

Smelling my arousal and imminent climax, Alucard slammed faster into me, his own pace losing cadence. 

We were so close. 

He had everything timed perfectly. Just as he had countless times before — night creatures and wild animals — all unsuspecting pawns to his blood thirst. He was adept at hiding his deplorable little secret, but I knew better. 

Fangs fully exposed, he grazed them masterfully over my neck, humming at my veins and arteries. Quite like a skilled chef discerning food, he was choosing which would taste most exquisite. My scarlet vessels were pulsing in tempo with my heartbeat — palpitating, quivering, waiting.

“Are you frightened? I can feel your terror in my bones…” villainy laced his snarl like a wolf finally rid of sheep’s clothing. 

I had to inhale gulps of air to articulate my words, “No….” But what I said or what I thought mattered no longer. Gone was Adrian — human, moral, benign. A bestial, debased monster, instead, all consumed him. 

Soulless eyes searched me once more, as if to forewarn me about my perilous decision, as if the human in him was straining to break free of his chains to stop this atrocity.

There was no turning back now.

I offered my neck to him, reckless, bloodstreams on full display. At last, with Alucard’s throbbing cock still stuffed full inside, I felt the firestorm in my core and the crushing torrent soon overcame me. 

My release tonight felt different — cathartic. I was once again the delicate driftwood being dragged underwater — careless, aimless, going where the current took me. My limbs fell limp at my sides, my spirit devoid of vigour. And I knew why. 

Alucard’s fangs were buried in my neck, drinking my blood as if a divine offering. When did he bite me? I felt no pain, only a rapture so heavenly I ached for more. 

And so drink he did. Rivers of blood coated his lips, crimson tributaries surging down his throat. He sucked and lapped at my vital spark, clawing at my body so arduously as if I was the most cherished jewel of immeasurable value. 

Like a vampire deprived of debauchery, he drank me in like sweet sin. He had no beginning and no end. And rightfully so. I was profoundly proud of my Adrian. At long last, he no longer had to be ashamed of who he was. He was liberated. He was free. 

My racing heart was now a supine hum. I lay naked — pliant and frozen in his arms. The sleepy swell of the ocean lulled me into the black nothingness. I was rising and falling, so in harmony with the current.

Above, hazy sunbeams fractioned the waves like sparkling diamond necklaces. Beneath, the sombre abyss tugged at my essence, diffusing all manner of light. The ominous depth, though a macabre embrace, was one so full of promise. It was beckoning to me, calling my name — stay, stay, stay…

—

I awoke to a pall of infinite blackness. 

I had been dreaming. There were shadows — silhouettes, of people I couldn’t quite make out. They were whispering, a sonnet of hurried voices, as if going somewhere, but nowhere at the same time. Then there was a lambent flame — the colour of pale amber, always in the distance but never near. Always tailing, always watching…

Where was I? 

I could see nothing, hear nothing. I shifted slightly, and my shoulders were met by cool textile — silk? As more of my senses reconciled, I felt the mattress below me, a satiny divan not reminiscent of my bed. Muted was the air, hollow was the roof, and

…algid was my skin. 

I was in a coffin.  

Panic coiled through the ridges of my ribs, puncturing my heart like lethal thorns. I clawed and pounded at the wood…was I buried alive?

Alas, like the caves of hell being vaquished by divine light, the casket slid open, and I clambered onto a sprawling granite floor. I was heaving, frantic to take in air, clamouring at my chest as if ghostly hands were crushing my heart, splintering my valves. 

Where was Adrian?

A succession of torches adorned the upper vaults, the mellow ebb of light suddenly becoming glaring to my eyes, as if I had been staring directly at the sun. I could make out the phosphorescent ripples and saffron hues that wreathed the flames. 

The air smelled vaguely of mildew and crumbling concrete, while the scampering of rodents in between masonry thundered in my ears. I could hear them squeaking, the sounds of their bones compressing while they squeezed through cracks and crevices. 

I could hear their heartbeats — tiny surges of blood in their capillaries. 

Such fragile little things, I wonder what they’d feel when they’re crushed by the force of my teeth. If they’d feel pain, if any at all, as I drain them dry…

I was so, so hungry. 

My awareness had heightened ten-fold, the anarchy of it all confounding whatever human that was left in me. The sensation of everything all at once was too much to bear and I covered my ears to drown out the distress. 

Futile efforts indeed. 

“Adrian? Adrian…” My voice hoarse from wheezing.

Was this what he had to endure? Being so akin with the presence of entirety, enough to render one insane. Was this why he had been so loath to turn me?

I hauled myself off the ground, bidding my legs to what looked to be a door. Scarce a blink had passed than I was face to face with a metal threshold — intricate lineations etched faintly onto the frame. 

“Willing blood of the Raven Maiden,” — Enochian, words of ancient bygone, but Adrian and I had been avid philologists.

I didn’t concern myself with whether the translation had in fact referred to my blood, but I sank my fangs — a lurid extension — into my wrist and smeared them over the threshold. 

The magicked portal transported me to a bed chamber, a former bed chamber, now resembling the crux of a dense forest.

Creepers cleaved through stone, while poison vines slivered across furniture. Rich moss clung to the bed frame, eating away at the tulle canopy, embedding itself into rotted linen.

That chaise…it was ours. 

Horror flooded my senses as I glanced furtively around. 

Our armoire, our settee, our desk. 

Strewn across the floor, some shredded by tree roots dissecting the wooden panelling, lay stacks of disintegrating parchment like remnants of forgotten lore.

Vampiric speed overtaking, my eyes scanned the moth-eaten pages over. 

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

I choked on my tears. 

“To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster.”

They fell like glass, shattering on the ink, eroding the paper more.

How long had I been asleep for?

“No, no, no…”  I wept into the emptiness, anguish imprisoning my lungs, blocking off air. In spite of being undead, I had a heart, and it bled — it bled crimson, pain and grief. It bled with all the words I wished I could take back. 

It bled with all the ache that I might never see Adrian again. 

I scoured the castle. Every tower, every room, every dungeon, each a shell of its former mirth. The scenes ran parallel  — overgrown foliage, wrecked furnishings, pillars atrophied by decay. Our home had been eaten away by the curse of time. There was no sign of life, no essence of Adrian. 

With a threshing hole in my heart, I raced past the lattice of abandon toward the main doors. As the iron portcullis lifted, I recoiled at the hell that awaited me. 

There, in the blistering winter, impaled upon rows and rows of stakes, dangled festering corpses of night creatures…and humans. 

What have I done?

Pt I I Pt III

[leighsartworks216]

Comparing Hoards

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter

My heart aches at how goddamn fluffy and sweet and soft this chapter it (enjoy it while it lasts)

Warnings: blood, mentions of death, literal sleeping together, cuddling, hand holding, awkward flirting

Word Count: 1,441

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You jolt awake. Heart racing, mind reeling from the sudden escape of your dream. Your vision.

You saw it so clearly this time. A claymore, large and unwieldy, shoved into Jewel’s chest. The blood pouring out over blade and hands alike. Jewel, telling this strange woman to push it deeper in, very nearly to the hilt. Why would he do that? Why would he beg for death like that?

Something hard curls around your waist. It takes a moment to register as his tail. A moment longer to notice the heat at your back, and something large and leathery draped over your body. It’s a huge contrast to the pillows littering the floor beneath you, carefully placed to your liking; your “hoard”.

You try to turn over. His tail tightens slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs. His voice is low and rough, clearly affected by sleep.

You tap awkwardly at the scales on his tail, clearing your throat softly. “Why are you in here?”

The great leathery thing over you shifts a little, alongside the drawn out sound of him stretching. He’s only a foot or so away. “You were shivering.”

Ah. “Is that it?”

He huffs. “I was tired. And curious. ‘Bout why you’d prefer these soft things.”

“They feel nice. You must like things to be rough and hard. And cold.” You tentatively touch the leathery thing. “What is this? Is this a blanket?”

It shifts away from your fingers, letting in the chilly cavern air. A shiver accompanies the burst of goosebumps along your skin, even while covered by the few blankets he brought back from his excursion. It settles back over you lightly. “Mmph, it’s my wing.”

The vision that seemed to burn your mind feels distant now. Bearable. You don’t feel the burning ash in the air, or smell the coppery stench of all that blood. It’s nothing more than a dream, prophecy as it may be. But you cannot recall in all your foresight ever seeing wings. Logically, he has them, or else the trip up the mountain would have been far less sudden and disorienting.

“Can you hide them?” you ask curiously.

The pillows shift slightly behind you. “Hm?”

“Like, can you make them disappear when you want them to?” you clarify.

“Why?”

“I’ve never seen them in my visions. I was just wondering, that’s all.”

He sighs lowly, pillows shifting more and wing overtop of you rustling as he settles back into a comfortable position. The heat sinks into the blankets. Settles down over you, like an embrace. It feels safe. You mindlessly stroke the scales of his tail, following the ridges and shapes with light fingers. “Yeah. I can hide them.”

You make a soft sound. Questions seem to flitter in and out of your mind like birds to a pile of grain, skittish but hungry. You wish you could know everything about dragons and fiends. Wish you’d been told anything outside of their ferocity and danger. The persistent doom that overshadows the things that make them like any other creature, that show their lives and impacts on nature.

Your touch begins to slow, hand stilling until it stops, fingers relaxing and palm resting flat atop it. Your eyes feel heavy behind their lids. Body feels weightless with the oncoming threat of sleep. You curl up tighter beneath the cover of his wing. “I wish I could see them,” you murmur, lips barely moving around the words. “I’m sure they’re… something… to behold…”

You drift back into your visions. You strain to see through the ash and flower petals for the impression of great wings sprouting from his back.

-

“Where do you usually sleep?” you ask him suddenly. You sit on the plush chair he gifted you, listening to him rummage through his piles of gold and treasure. The bandages around your neck are gone, at last. The bruises, so he says, have already begun to fade. Your necklace is returned to its rightful place, cold metal gentle against your skin where it sits on your collarbones.

Jewel chuckles. “Did those stories of fiends never say?”

You try to think. “I don’t think they said anything about fiends sleeping. They were always about how ever-watchful they are, always guarding their treasure at all hours of the day.” You smile, remembering the feeling of his tail around you and his wing overtop. “Which clearly isn’t true.”

He hums, like there’s a secret he’s keeping that he wishes he could tell. “Not completely,” he says finally. “We do sleep. Most of us rest during the day.”

“Do you have a room here somewhere?”

“You’re sitting in it, oracle.”

You blink dumbly in the direction of his voice, body straightening in abject horror. This chair- The chair he gifted you because it’s soft… “Did I steal your bed?!”

He laughs this time, rich and light. “No, oracle - my room. Fiends sleep atop their treasure.”

You relax again. “Good. If you said you slept in this chair, I would have felt awful.” You scrub your face with your hands, groaning. “Imagine me sleeping on a dragon’s bed while he just watches.”

“That doesn’t sound like a terrible sight at all.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You clear your throat, dropping your hands to your lap. “Yeah, well, if you sleep on top of all that,” you gesture out to the piles of treasure, “then I can’t imagine I’d be all that comfortable.”

His footsteps approach the plush lounge chair. There is no attempt to surprise you with his proximity this time, yet you find yourself nervous with every step closer. A fluttering in your chest and stomach, creeping up the back of your throat. “Would you care to try it?” he asks, directly in front of you.

You purse your lips. There’s no way it will be comfortable. You remember all those times coins and gems poked into your bare feet. But you also remember something he said last night, when you woke up to his presence behind you. “I was tired. And curious. ‘Bout why you’d prefer these soft things.”

Slowly, you nod. “Alright. I’ll try it.”

His clawed hand lifts yours from your lap, talons wrapping gently around your soft flesh to help you to your feet. He leads you deeper into the room, past piles you know to be there, until he reaches one he deems fit for your first go.

Coins and small, loose treasure slip free under his feet as he takes the first steps up. They tumble down to your ankles, almost ticklish, as he helps you up with him. It’s a challenge, to be sure. You reach out to him with your other hand and he grabs on right away, chuckling underneath the noise at your plight as you clamber higher and higher up on the pile. You laugh, too. You wish you could see what a fool you’re making of yourself.

After a couple minutes, you’ve reached the top. Jewel doesn’t let go. “Now lay down.”

Carefully, feeling a mite off balance with the still-shifting gold beneath your feet, you sit yourself down. You let go of one of his hands and lay yourself back. The rustling of shifting gold becomes silent.

It’s strange. It’s not comfortable - jagged edges stick into your back, a metallic scent wafts unwelcome into your nose, your neck has absolutely no support - but you don’t hate it. You couldn’t sleep here, but simply laying here, like laying on a giant bed of pebbles, is almost peaceful.

The pile shifts beside you as he lays down, too. Your twined hands rest between you, firm and secure. You feel the weight of his eyes on you.

“What do you think?”

You laugh softly. “It’s not comfortable.”

He chuckles. “You mortals are too soft.”

Your laughter echoes back from the cavernous ceiling. Even after you both quiet down, it faintly returns the mix essence of your voices. You close your eyes, trying to imagine what this would be like as a dragon. Hard scales scratched pleasantly by your hoard of treasure, metal easily warmed and inviting. The power of sitting up here and looking down over everything else.

His hand shifts in yours. You open your hand, mindlessly turning your head as though you could watch what he’s doing. His palm turns against yours, gauntleted fingers brushing overtop your own. They spread, fitting into the gaps, and curl around your hand once more. His hold is so loose, as though he’s prepared to pull away. You curl your fingers around his before he can, holding on, keeping him close.

“It’s not a terrible sight,” he murmurs quietly.

---

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[novaursa]

Legacy (but you will fly)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Some events and timeline don't match canon plot.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: under lion's gaze

- Next part: winter is coming

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The wind howled through the craggy cliffs of Casterly Rock as you stood before the gaping maw of the old mine entrance, its shadow swallowing the light. The air around you was heavy, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and something older—something ancient, as if the earth itself had secrets waiting to be uncovered. Behind you, a group of Tywin’s guards stood at attention, their hands resting on their sword hilts, their expressions tense.

Tywin himself stood a few paces back, his face carved from stone. His green eyes, sharp as flint, were fixed on you as though willing you to change your mind. The wind tugged at the crimson Lannister cloak draped over his shoulders, the only movement in his otherwise immovable stance.

“You’re certain about this?” Tywin’s voice was low, measured, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “I have to do this, Tywin. He’s waiting for me.”

“And what if he’s not?” Tywin shot back, his tone clipped. “You’re walking into a cavern that hasn’t been stable in years, and after that, you’re putting yourself at the mercy of a dragon.”

“He came here for me,” you replied calmly, though your heart beat like a drum in your chest. “If there’s anyone he’ll listen to, it’s me.”

Tywin took a step forward, his gaze narrowing. “I will not stand here while you disappear into the dark and risk yourself for—”

“For what, Tywin?” you interrupted, turning fully to face him. Your voice was steady, though there was a fire in it now. “This is something I was born to do. You’ve always valued pragmatism over pride. Well, now I ask you to trust me and let me do what must be done.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as he studied you. You could see the internal war on his face—the struggle between his need to control every piece on the board and the realization that, this time, he couldn’t.

“You will not go alone,” he finally said, his tone hard as iron.

You shook your head resolutely. “No. You and your men will stay here. If you come after me, you’ll only provoke him. Viserion will sense your intentions, and that will endanger us all.”

Tywin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re asking me to stand idle while you disappear into that pit.”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” you said, softer this time, stepping closer to him. “This is something only I can do. The dragon is part of me, Tywin—just as this place is part of you. You taught me to value reason, and reason tells me that this connection cannot be ignored.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, his gaze intense as it bored into yours. Finally, after a long silence, he gave a small nod. “If you do not return in one hour, I will send men after you.”

“Agreed,” you said, though you had no intention of needing rescue.

The silence lingered between you for a moment longer, but then Tywin’s hand lifted, his gloved fingers brushing your arm—a rare, silent gesture of his concern. “Be careful,” he said, his voice softer than you expected.

You offered him a faint smile, your fingers briefly grazing over his hand. “I will.”

Turning back toward the mine, you steeled yourself as the shadows yawned before you. The guards muttered among themselves, exchanging uneasy glances as they watched you cross the threshold. The sound of your boots against the stone echoed hollowly as you descended into the darkness.

With each step, the light from the entrance dimmed further, replaced by a deep, oppressive silence. You pressed forward, your hand grazing along the cold, rough walls of the mine. Faint echoes of dripping water reached your ears, the sound almost rhythmic in the stillness.

The further you went, the stronger the feeling became—an energy humming in the air, ancient and alive. It was as if the earth itself whispered to you, beckoning you closer. The temperature shifted as you ventured deeper, the air growing warmer, the scent of smoke faint but unmistakable.

“Viserion,” you whispered into the dark, the sound of his name swallowed by the vastness of the cavern.

A low, rumbling growl reverberated through the mine, the walls seeming to vibrate with the force of it. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to press on. A faint glow appeared ahead, flickering and dancing like firelight. You rounded a corner, and there he was.

Viserion.

The dragon lay curled in a vast chamber at the heart of the mine, his cream-and-gold scales reflecting in the dark. His massive wings were folded against his sides, and his golden eyes snapped open the moment you entered. The glow of molten fire flickered deep within them as he lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he caught your scent.

“Viserion,” you said again, your voice calm and soothing despite the thunderous pounding of your heart. “It’s me.”

The dragon let out a low rumble, the sound vibrating through your chest as he uncurled, his massive form rising. The light of his scales lit the chamber, and as he stepped closer, his hot breath washed over you.

You raised your hands slowly, palms open, just as you had done the first time. “I know you came here for me,” you whispered. “I’m here now.”

Viserion’s head dipped low, his eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, it felt as though the world fell away—there was only you and the dragon, your breaths mingling as you stood together in the heart of the earth.

Slowly, tentatively, you reached out your hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the rough texture of his snout. Viserion stilled, the fire in his eyes dimming to something softer, something familiar.

“I understand now,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the sound of his breathing. “You were leading me here. To what? To why?”

Viserion let out a soft growl, pressing his snout more firmly into your touch. The warmth of his presence filled you with an indescribable calm, as though the dragon itself was reassuring you that this was only the beginning.

The entrance to the mines stood like a dark, gaping maw in the earth, its shadow stretching long across the worn ground. Tywin stood a short distance from it, arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid as a blade. His green eyes, cold and unyielding, remained fixed on the opening, as though his focus alone might summon you back from the depths.

Around him, soldiers shifted uneasily, their hands never straying far from their weapons. Despite the orders to remain calm, the whispers among the men refused to die down. Words like dragon and curse passed from one mouth to another, carried on the wind like a contagion.

Lord Mace Tyrell, never one for silence, paced restlessly nearby, his ornate cloak dragging behind him, dirtied from the long ride. He looked toward the mine entrance with growing unease, as if expecting Viserion’s colossal form to emerge at any moment.

“This is madness, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, finally breaking the strained silence. His voice lacked its usual bluster, replaced by a quivering edge of fear. “We sit here like sheep waiting for the wolf. She’s been in there too long.”

Tywin didn’t so much as glance at him. “The hour isn’t yet spent.”

“And what then?” Mace pressed, stepping closer. “If she doesn’t return? What if the beast turns on her—or worse, comes for us?”

Tywin finally turned his head, his gaze sharp as steel. “Then I will deal with it.”

The confidence in his tone silenced Mace for a moment, though the Tyrell lord clearly found little comfort in it. He opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, the sound of hooves pounding against the stone path reached them. All eyes turned to the road leading down from the cliffs as a column of riders emerged, banners bearing the Lannister crimson fluttering in the wind.

At the head of the party rode Kevan Lannister, his armor dulled from travel, his brow furrowed in both concern and confusion. As he drew his horse to a halt, Kevan dismounted and handed his reins to one of his men before striding toward his brother.

“Tywin,” Kevan greeted, his voice steady but guarded as he surveyed the scene before him. His sharp eyes flicked to the mine entrance, then back to his brother. “I rode straight from the Riverlands when word reached me. They’re saying… Well, they’re saying things that are difficult to believe.”

Tywin turned to face him fully, his arms lowering to his sides. “What things?”

Kevan’s gaze swept the gathered soldiers, many of whom avoided his eye. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to keep their conversation private. “Men whispering on the front lines, even in Riverrun—rumors that a dragon lives beneath Casterly Rock.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, though his jaw tightened subtly. “Rumors travel faster than truth.”

“Are they rumors?” Kevan pressed, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. “Tywin, I need to hear it from you.”

For a long moment, the two brothers stood in silence, the wind tugging at their cloaks and the distant sound of the sea filling the spaces between their words. Finally, Tywin spoke, his voice low but firm. “A dragon has taken refuge here, in the old mines.”

Kevan’s face paled, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Seven hells,” he muttered, running a hand over his beard. “How is this possible? Dragons are gone—dead—nothing more than bones in the crypts of King’s Landing.”

“And yet one remains here,” Tywin replied curtly. “Alive, and very real.”

Kevan glanced toward the mine entrance again, his unease growing. “And Y/N? The men say she—”

“She is in there now,” Tywin interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. “The dragon answers to her.”

Kevan blinked, visibly struggling to process his brother’s words. “This is dangerous, Tywin. Dragons bring ruin wherever they go. You know this better than anyone.”

“I know what dragons are,” Tywin replied coldly. “And I also know that control is possible.”

Kevan scoffed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Control? You think a dragon can be controlled?”

“If anyone can do it,” Tywin said, his voice steady, “she can.”

Kevan studied his brother carefully, searching for cracks in Tywin’s impenetrable armor. “And what of the realm? What will the king say when he learns a dragon now sleeps beneath the Rock?”

“The king will know nothing,” Tywin snapped, his patience fraying. “Not until I deem it necessary.”

Kevan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flicking to the uneasy soldiers nearby. “You cannot keep this hidden forever. Dragons are not secrets, Tywin. They’re fire and fury. The world will know, sooner or later.”

“And when it does,” Tywin said, his voice like iron, “it will know that the dragon answers to the House of Lannister.”

The words hung in the air, bold and unyielding. Kevan regarded him with a mixture of awe and concern, but before he could respond, a loud, guttural rumble reverberated from deep within the mine. The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet, and the guards took an instinctive step back, their hands flying to their swords.

Tywin’s eyes snapped toward the mine entrance, his gaze narrowing. Kevan followed his brother’s line of sight, his voice low and uneasy. “And what happens when the dragon decides it no longer answers to anyone?”

Tywin didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the dark cavern. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, whispering among themselves, but Tywin’s face remained unreadable.

They waited in silence, the tension stretching as thin as wire. The wind carried the faint sound of something deeper—something alive shifting in the mines, a distant growl that resonated through the earth like thunder.

Tywin stood unmoved, his gaze locked on the shadows before him. If he felt any doubt, he hid it behind the impenetrable mask of a man who had spent his life commanding not only armies but fate itself.

“It won’t come to that,” he said finally, though whether he was speaking to Kevan, the soldiers, or himself, no one could say.

The cavern pulsed with an ancient energy, the air heavy with heat and the faint shimmer of dust as Viserion continued to carve into the stone with massive claws. The scraping and grinding sound echoed endlessly off the walls, accompanied by the low, resonant growl of the dragon’s breath. The dim light cast by the molten veins of the earth danced off dragon’s cream-and-gold scales, highlighting every sharp ridge and sinew of her colossal form.

You stood at the edge of the chamber, your hands braced against the rough stone wall as you watched him with growing awe and realization. What you had thought was restless movement or instinctive digging was far more deliberate. He wasn’t just clawing at the rock—he was building something.

Dragonglass.

Shards of it, black and gleaming, littered the ground around her claws. Some he pushed into neat piles, others he layered carefully against the wall, fitting them together in a way that made no sense to you at first. And then you saw it: the beginnings of a nest—a crude but unmistakable formation of obsidian, jagged yet secure, a nest only a dragon could create.

A sudden, bone-deep chill crept into your spine despite the heat of the cavern. A nest. Viserion wasn’t just here by accident—he was called here, driven by instinct older than memory. And he was not a he. The realization struck you like a blow to the chest.

“You’re not just a dragon,” you murmured, stepping closer, your voice almost swallowed by the cavernous space. “You’re a mother.”

Viserion turned her massive head toward you, molten gold eyes narrowing slightly as if she understood your words. She huffed, sending a gust of hot air over you that rattled loose stones across the floor. Her claws resumed their work, the slow, steady scraping filling the silence again.

Your hand pressed to your temple as a strange, familiar hum rose in your mind, a vibration that set your teeth on edge. The cavern blurred slightly at the edges, shadows flickering where there were none. Brynden, the name came to you unbidden—the voice that had guided you so far.

"You cannot linger. It is time to move. The dragon knows where she must go."

“Where?” you whispered sharply, your voice echoing as if the cavern itself had heard you. “Where must we go?”

Viserion paused, turning her head once more. This time, there was something expectant in her gaze, something waiting. The voice in your mind grew quieter, as though a path had already been laid and it was for you alone to take the next step.

You swallowed hard, stepping closer to her massive foreleg. “We can’t stay here, can we?” You glanced up at her golden gaze, your voice firmer now. “Then let’s go.”

Viserion rumbled low in her throat, an almost pleased sound, as she rose to her full height. Her wings unfurled slightly, brushing against the walls, and the force of it sent loose shards of dragonglass clattering to the floor. She turned her body, presenting her massive flank, and in that moment, you knew what you had to do.

Your heart hammered wildly in your chest as you moved forward, placing a trembling hand on one of her scales. The texture was harder than armor, sharper than you expected—edges of her scales caught the light like shards of a broken blade.

“Don’t throw me off, Viserion,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice as you gripped the edge of her shoulder. “I need you to trust me as I trust you.”

You hoisted yourself up, clambering awkwardly at first as you tried to find a way to mount her massive frame. Each scale was a ridge of razor-sharp edges, and they dug into your palms as you climbed. You gasped as one particularly deep edge sliced through the fabric of your gown, nicking the skin of your thigh. Warm blood dripped down your leg, but you pushed forward, biting back the sting.

The scales cut deeper as you pulled yourself into position, straddling the base of her neck. You dug your knees into the muscle below her shoulders, the ridges of her spine pressing into your thighs. Your gown was shredded by now, crimson streaks staining the torn fabric where scales had caught and bitten into your skin. Each cut burned, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to let go.

Viserion let out a sharp, commanding shriek that reverberated through the cavern like a war cry. Her wings unfurled, and for a moment, the sheer size of her power stole your breath. The ground beneath you trembled as she shifted her weight, claws scraping against stone as she prepared to take flight.

“Steady,” you whispered, pressing your palms against the scales of her neck, feeling the immense heat radiating through them. “I’m with you.”

The dragon’s massive head turned slightly, her eyes shining as she regarded you one final time. Then, with a surge of power that rattled your very bones, she pushed off the ground.

The world spun as Viserion’s wings snapped open and the cavern blurred around you. You clung tightly to her spines, your fingers digging into her scales as wind rushed past, sending your hair whipping behind you. Pain sparked where your cuts met the rush of air, but you didn’t let go. You couldn’t.

The roar of her ascent filled your ears as she powered upward, breaking free of the mine and surging into the open sky. The light of the sun struck her scales, setting her hide ablaze in brilliance. For a moment, you looked down and saw the world fall away—the Rock, the people below, all of it shrinking beneath Viserion’s shadow.

And then you looked forward, gripping tightly as the wind tore at your face. You didn’t know where she was taking you, but the voice still hummed faintly in your mind, like an unspoken promise.

High Heart.

You leaned forward against her scales, your voice low but steady. “Take me there, Viserion.”

The dragon shrieked again, wings beating with powerful purpose, and you soared into the horizon together—toward destiny, toward something far greater than either of you had yet to understand.

The moment the rumble started—a deep, bone-shaking tremor that seemed to roll through the very ground—Tywin Lannister knew something was happening. He turned his gaze toward the mine entrance, its dark mouth now alive with a faint glow. A distant roar echoed from within, low and building in intensity until it became a deafening, primal cry.

Tywin’s soldiers, hardened men who had seen countless battles, shifted uneasily. Some backed away, their hands instinctively reaching for their swords, though they knew no blade could stop what was coming. Horses nearby reared and bucked, their wild eyes rolling as the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension. The dogs brought to the site howled, pulling at their leashes, desperate to escape.

“Steady!” Tywin barked sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold your ground!”

His words had little effect. The earth trembled again, louder now, until suddenly—a sound like thunder cracked the air. The wind whipped through the clearing as the massive form of Viserion shot forth from the mine, her wings flaring wide as she burst into the open.

“Seven hells,” someone muttered, their voice barely audible over the rush of wind and the bellowing horses.

The great dragon soared into the sky, golden-cream scales glinting in the light. Dust and loose stones scattered in her wake, blinding those closest to the entrance. Tywin took a single step back, his cloak whipping violently behind him. His guards scrambled, some throwing themselves to the ground in panic as the massive beast soared low, the wind from her wings kicking up debris.

“Out of the way!” Kevan Lannister shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the chaos.

Tywin didn’t move. He stood firm, his gaze locked on the dragon’s back, where the unmistakable figure of you sat, your pale hair whipping wildly in the wind. For a moment, it seemed as though time had stilled. You were there, one hand clutching the base of Viserion’s spines, your form small against the sheer enormity of the beast, yet unshaken.

“She’s riding it,” one of the soldiers stammered, awe and disbelief thick in his voice.

Tywin’s face was unreadable, but his fists were clenched tightly at his sides as he watched you soar overhead. Viserion let out a thunderous roar, the sound enough to send men stumbling backward, hands flying to their ears.

“Control the horses!” Barristan Selmy barked, gripping the reins of one panicked mare as others bolted, nearly dragging their handlers into the dirt. Nearby, the livestock brought as bait screamed and scattered in every direction, a frenzy of hooves and dust.

“Make way! Hold them back!” Tywin shouted, his voice carrying above the din. Guards rushed to regain order, but it was futile; the animals were beyond calming now. One horse broke free entirely, galloping wildly down the path with a terrified shriek.

Viserion angled upward with a sharp tilt of her wings, pulling higher into the sky as if to remind them all of her dominance. A few men stared up, their faces pale, while others sank to their knees in what could only be described as terrified reverence.

Tywin’s eyes never left you. He tracked your form as the dragon rose above the cliffs, your silhouette framed against the blazing sun as you disappeared toward the distant horizon.

Kevan stepped up beside him, his face ashen, his voice tight. “Tywin… she’s gone.”

Tywin didn’t respond at first. His gaze lingered on the shrinking figure in the distance, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them. Finally, he turned sharply, his voice cold and clipped. “Order the men to regain control of the livestock and horses. I want this site cleared by sundown.”

Kevan blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden command. “You mean to—”

“I mean to bring order back to my lands,” Tywin snapped, cutting him off. His tone left no room for debate. “This changes nothing.”

Nothing, except everything.

The men hesitated before scrambling back to their tasks, chasing after the scattered animals and pulling disoriented horses back into line. Barristan Selmy approached Tywin, his expression grim as he surveyed the chaos. “You know where she’s going,” he said quietly, his voice firm but respectful.

Tywin turned his steely gaze to Barristan. “Wherever she goes, she’ll return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Barristan asked, unflinching.

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his face hard as carved stone. “Then I will find her. And bring her back.”

The old knight held his gaze for a long moment before nodding once. “I’ll see the men back to order.”

As Barristan turned away, Tywin allowed himself a brief, solitary moment to exhale. His hands unclenched, though the tension in his shoulders remained. The sight of you on dragonback had stirred something deep within him—something he could not yet name. Pride. Fear. Possession.

“Foolish woman,” he muttered under his breath, though the words carried no heat. He cast one last glance toward the horizon where you had disappeared, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face before he turned and walked away, cloak billowing behind him.

The chamber was heavy with the low murmur of voices and the faint scratching of quills on parchment. A fortnight had passed, and the absence of your return had begun to settle over Casterly Rock like a dark cloud. Tywin Lannister stood at the head of the war table, his gaze unwavering as he looked over the gathered advisors, their faces grim. Kevan Lannister sat to his left, his usual calm replaced with unease, while others—lords, scouts, and captains—exchanged wary glances.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that seemed to creep through the stone walls. Reports and rumors lay scattered across the table, carried in on parchment and uncertain voices.

Kevan broke the silence first, clearing his throat. “News from the Stormlands and the North,” he began, his voice steady but low. “Stannis Baratheon is dead. His forces have broken entirely—scattered to the winds. The Florents are rallying behind Lord Mace Tyrell in gratitude for their swift deliverance. Storm’s End and Dragonstone remain secured.”

A few murmurs of approval rumbled through the room, but Tywin barely reacted, his face carved into the same stern mask he always wore. “And the North?” he asked, his voice measured but carrying the weight of command.

One of the scouts stepped forward—a wiry man with the look of someone accustomed to hardship. “Cold winds have begun to blow, my lord,” he said, his tone cautious. “Our men in the field report strange weather patterns. There’s talk… of something stirring beyond the Wall.”

“Wildling nonsense,” one of the older lords muttered dismissively, shaking his head.

Tywin silenced the man with a single glance. “What else?”

The scout shifted uneasily. “Reports from the Riverlands, my lord. Travelers and merchants say a dragon has been sighted near the ruins of Harrenhal. Others swear it was seen as far south as Fairmarket. The creature leaves no destruction in its wake—only shadow and flame in the night sky.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the words settling like lead. Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though he betrayed no other reaction. His gaze flicked to the map spread across the table, his finger tapping near the Riverlands.

“High Heart,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

Kevan heard him and frowned. “You think she’s gone there?”

Tywin’s expression remained cold, but a faint flicker of something—a calculation, a conclusion—passed through his eyes. “She spoke of it before. A place of visions, of old magic. Whatever drives her, it led her there.”

Lord Tytos Brax, an older bannerman, folded his arms, clearly skeptical. “If she’s taken the dragon to the Riverlands, my lord, then she risks making a spectacle of herself. Rumors are already spreading like wildfire. The smallfolk speak of the return of the Targaryens.”

“And who spreads those whispers, I wonder?” Tywin cut in sharply, his gaze flicking toward the gathered men. “Fear makes men reckless. Rumors of dragons bring panic. I will not allow chaos to fester while we remain uncertain of her intentions.”

Kevan hesitated before speaking. “Do you still believe she’ll return, Tywin? It’s been two weeks. Dragons… they don’t belong in chains, and neither does she.”

Tywin’s sharp gaze snapped to his brother. “She will return,” he said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “She will not abandon her son.”

The room was quiet again, save for the faint sound of wind rattling against the windowpanes. For all of Tywin’s certainty, the tension among the men remained palpable. Doubt lingered, though none dared speak it aloud.

“And if she doesn’t?” Lord Brax pressed, unwilling to let the question go unanswered. “What then?”

Tywin turned his icy gaze on him, his voice colder than the wind from the North. “Then I will bring her back myself, like I've said.”

Kevan leaned closer, his voice low enough for only Tywin to hear. “And what if she refuses?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face. “She will not refuse.”

Kevan nodded slowly, though the doubt lingered in his expression. “And the boy? What happens to him if the rumors spread further? If people begin to see him as—”

“He is my son and heir,” Tywin interrupted, his voice like steel. “Damon Lannister will remain under my protection.”

The men around the table exchanged glances, the tension settling back over the room like a shroud. Tywin looked down at the map once more, his finger tracing the route through the Riverlands. His thoughts were sharp and methodical, but beneath them lingered something deeper—something he would never admit aloud. A flicker of unease. Of frustration.

“She’ll come back,” he repeated quietly, as if reassuring himself more than anyone else. “She knows where she belongs.”

The chamber was quiet for a long moment before Tywin turned to the scout. “Double the patrols near the Riverlands. If the dragon is sighted again, I want a report immediately. No one speaks of this beyond these walls.”

“Yes, my lord,” the scout said quickly, bowing before retreating from the chamber.

Tywin straightened, his posture unyielding as he turned back to his gathered men. “This meeting is concluded. See to your tasks.”

The lords and captains filed out, their footsteps echoing down the stone hallways as the great doors closed behind them. Kevan lingered a moment longer, watching his brother carefully.

“You don’t truly know if she’ll return, do you?” Kevan asked quietly.

Tywin didn’t look at him as he replied, his voice steady and resolute. “No. But she is mine. And I know that much.”

With that, Tywin turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the window. Beyond the thick glass, the skies stretched endlessly toward the Riverlands, where whispers of dragons and shadows waited to be brought to heel.

[0bticeo]

lurk | feyd rautha

part 3 of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 4.)

summary:

the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

wc: 4k.

tw: blood, gore, possessive feyd rautha, bene gesserit shenanigans, determinism but make it sexy, bit of knife play, blood play, wound fucking, fingering, oral (fem recieving), somewhat sub feyd, breeding, inkpie, brief mention of cockwarming.

you’re kneeling. or rather, two guards are forcing you down on your knees, fingers digging in the meat of your shoulder until they reach the bone. you hold back a wince. 

you fail. 

your breath is heavy, stuttering little gasps leaving your lips with droplets of blood. your left side is on fire, each inhale pure, agonizing torture. use the voice and they’ll kill you.

you’re kneeling before baron vladimir harkonnen in his personal chambers, in a tattered robe. it’s filthy, the way he looks at you like you’re prized meat.

you bare your teeth.

“such defiance, atreides.” from the murky depths of his bath, he tilts his head. volutes of smoke escape his parted lips, slithering towards you. “tell me, why should i let you live?”

careful. 

plans within plans within plans. you can’t let your feeble control over the situation escape you. inhale. choke on your scream - like hell you’ll show him your pain.

“if i weren’t useful to your plans, i would be dead.”

an image flashes in your mind’s eye. a spider woven out of human flesh, the mangled bodies of harkonnen prisoners frankensteined together. barely alive. an eternity of torment.

the baron laughs, a deep, cavernous rumbling. it fills the penumbra, fills you with dread. your shoulders tense - nervous impulse. you’re not in control.

“fair enough.” he inches forward, the gigantic mass of him rippling through filthy waters. “where is your brother?”

pain. it ripples through you, sinks its claws in your chest and freezes there, a sinking weight. you can’t breathe. you push through.

“he’s already given his last breath to the sands of arrakis.”

“how would you know?”

“dreams.”

the answer escapes your gritted teeth with frightening rapidity. good. let him think pain clouds your judgment. let him see you as weaker than you really are. 

one of the guards tightens his hold, forces you to stand straight. blood drips down your lip. you will not scream.

“dreams?”

the subtle narrowing of his eyes. a quirk of his lip. disbelief. intrigue.

“i’ve followed my mother’s footsteps.” 

“ah, lady jessica.” 

keep her name out of your mouth. 

he leans back in the bathtub. silence settles. stretches. stretches. he’s pensive, the baron. his lips wrap at the end of the pipe, mouth like a maw swallowing it, releasing acrid smoke that burns you. spice.

(visions. shai hulud deemed your brother worthy. on they go. march south or die. maybe the sands haven’t consumed him yet.) 

nervous exhaustion settles in. they haven’t treated your wounds. it takes every ounce of energy to remain conscious, every inch of pride to will your muscles to stop trembling. your vision blurs at the edges.

“i’ll ask again, atreides. why should i let you live?”

bastard. you’re on your last legs. he has you cornered. 

“because you’d have to kill your heir if you don’t.”

now that catches his attention.

“go on.”

careful. there’s a thin line between usefulness and danger. do not step on the wrong side.

“he’s recognized me in the arena."

the ghost of his touch against the wicked scar of your forearm. the flash of a grin, black teeth like a promise inked at the back of your skull.

you fought well, atreides.

behind your back, your nails dig into your palms. 

“he’ll ruin you.”

“is that so?”

skepticism. amusement.

“do you think it wise to try and find out, baron?”

silence. fate looms over you. spins its web in the calculated gaze of the baron, gaze like cold steel cutting through you. 

your life is in his hands and he relishes in it. in having you, half bare before him, chest heaving with each stuttering breath, red darkening the black of your dress.

you watch him lick his lips and shiver with disgust.

“do you think it wise to threaten me when i have wiped your house from the surface of the known galaxy?”

oh, right on a silver platter.

your mouth drips shadows as you bare your teeth in a grin.

“only because you were backed up by the imperium and its sardaukar.” you cough. blood drips on the ground. “you were a pawn, and that scum of an emperor could deem you a threat, too.”

a beat.

he’s smiling.

“you’ll be of use, atreides.” 

a wave of his hand.

the guards move. drag you up until you’re standing on faltering legs. defiant, still. breath ragged, panting, blood pooling at your feet. you feel soiled, with the way the baron looks at you, eyes dragging down to your womb.

there’s a commotion behind you. you still. in your state, you’ve neglected to analyze your surroundings, only focusing on the biggest threat in the room. you didn’t take into account the harkonnen court behind you. atreides. the baron practically signed your death. 

shit.

your vision is darkening in the corners.

“i ought to drown you in that tub.”

feyd-rautha, voice a low growl borne out of primal fury. feyd-rautha, in dark robes, shadow among shadows. you catch the slow twitch of his pale hand, the instinctual gesture of nerves calling for a familiar blade. to kill or protect, you do not know.

the guards freeze. you’re left there, struggling to stand, sweat dripping down your back with the effort of staying upright. how utterly humiliating. 

“do not be hasty, my dear nephew.”

a ripple. the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you. 

one step, two, until he’s facing you. 

he snarls at the guards. they let go of you. you collapse, only stopped from slamming upon the marble floors by two strong arms. 

he’s pulling you in his chest, arm wrapping around your waist. you shudder, nerves alight with the instinctual need to get away from this place, from the baron’s lecherous’ stare, from the court’s bloodlust. 

i must not fear. fear is the mind killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my fear-

you don’t realize you’ve been shaking until a hand settles at the back of your head. warm. comforting. rubbing small circles in your scalp until you relax, if only by a fraction. he won’t let them harm you - you know it, deep in your soul. 

“yes, her.” dismissive. “and a bigger one. arrakis.”

you feel it, the way the na-baron’s body tenses, the ripple of the hard planes of his chest under the soft silk of his clothes. anticipation. unease. you press your cheek to his heart, listen to the erratic pulse of it.

“what about rabban?”

“he has failed to protect the spice production.”

paul. your fingers clench in your palm, piercing the skin.  

“tame arrakis feyd. free the spice, and i’ll make you emperor.”

you still. he who controls the spice has ultimate power over the known galaxy. power is power. knowledge is power.

“how?”

“use me.”

they still. rapt attention falls upon you. your fingers dig into the na-baron’s forearm like a vice to remain upright.

“if the great houses were to learn that the emperor ordered an entire house to be wiped out, they would question his authority. rebel. wage war until one comes on top.” you swallow blood. “you’ll have me as a living witness and weapon.”

“a weapon, huh?”

feyd-rautha looks down at you. there’s something awfully calculating in the way he assesses you, in the way his fingers curl over your hip - possessive. protective.

the baron rises by a fraction, mephistopheles bargaining.

“will you side with us, atreides?” 

you let out a shaky breath. laughter. you’re laughing at him, at the absurdity of the situation - you, last of your house, striking a deal with the devil for revenge.

“i will. i only ask for one thing in return - the emperor’s head.”

the baron’s gaze is riveted to you. he nods. bargain sealed.

“this must not leave this room.”

feyd-rautha springs into action, blades drawn out of their sheaths before the baron finishes his sentence.

bodies fall. 

carnifex. the butcher. oh, he’s gorgeous, feyd-rautha, twin blades slicing through gaping throats, droplets of blood landing on his pale cheek. 

the baron immerses himself in that wretched bath, until it’s only you and the apex predator that is him.

you take a step forward. two. three. until you’re facing him, slowly raising your hand. the motion alone has you gasping for breath. still, you persist, until your fingers settle on his cheek, thumb wiping away at the gore sprayed there. 

he leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded, nuzzling in your palm. his own hand cradles yours, warm, smearing blood on your skin. his lips press against your palm, against the many half-moons your nails have left in their wake. 

“come, my little atreides,” he mutters. “you need medical attention.” 

his eyes sink into yours, magnetic, all consuming. they dart to your parted lips, to the blood coating them. he leans in, breath like fire upon your soul, upon your awaiting mouth. 

your breath stutters.

oh.

“catch me, feyd.”

you fall. 

.

.

.

fall until you stand in the desert of arrakis. paul has his back turned to you, silhouette burning bright in your retina. corpses. they’re burning, all of them, and with the stench of sun-charred flesh rises a litany. lisan al gaib. 

lead them to paradise.

you want to scream. you want to reach out for cruel fate and rip her asunder with your bare hands until that twisted future is no more.

you do not know whether your brother is the kwisatz haderach. you do not know if there is a kwisatz haderach, what’s with the missionaria protectiva’s wretched tale.

warmth seeps in your womb, the gentle press of a lover’s hand. you do not know if the child you’ll bear will be the one. 

desert sands slips from your fingers.

you just want your family back. 

**

feyd doesn’t expect it, the moment you collapse in his arms with a whispered plea. still, he catches you. slides his arms under the back of your knees and pulls you close, where he knows no harm would come to you.

who would possibly dare to cross him? 

warmth spreads across his hand. blood, he realizes. your wound, that vicious strike of his hasn’t been treated. fury washes over him, gaping maw sinking in his heart. it is vicious, too, that fury.

it tells him of blood and death and destruction. death to the baron. death and misery upon those who’ve wronged you - doesn’t matter if he has to face the sardaukar, for he is legion. 

the hallways are empty. servants have long deserted the baron’s quarters, knowing not to disturb him. good. no one must know of your presence here. 

he looks down at you, at your wan face, at the blood dripping down your chin, spreading, spreading down your throat. 

he cannot let you die. 

he cannot compromise himself more than he already has by threatening the doctors to kill them should you die in their hands. he leaves you in their care and strides back to his own chambers. they’ll notify him of your condition. 

you, last atreides left standing. you, with your sharp wit, sharp blade and sharper smile. you, feral, snarling at him in the arena. you, hands dipped in ink darker than black, spreading it over his back. 

he had felt your warmth, back then. felt the softness of your skin on his, shivered as you ran over his deltoids, down to the rib - lower. each and every one of his nerves, raw, exposed, yearning for your touch. 

there had been a beat, a split second of hesitation on your part. blood calls for blood, and his house has spilled so much of your blood. it would have been easy for you to take a hold of his blade and sink it in his exposed back. 

he almost wanted you to do it.

(he had tilted his head, back then, a low growl leaving his lips at the mere thought of it. he could almost taste it, your sheer want.)

he, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen, lets his guard down, as if waiting for you to strike. why is that? 

his steps do not lead him to a place of honor. too much blood has been spilled in this palace - a tribute to harkonnen nature, really. verses upon verses of hymns interwoven with gore and the acrid scent of enemies torn asunder by their blades. hellish epics to those who died bloody.

retribution is second nature - and he expects it from you.

then why is he so soft around you?

you’re still an atreides. your only worth to his uncle as of now resides in this precise fact - that you remain a witness to your house’s demise. a hidden blade, ready to be sunk in the emperor’s back. 

his steps slow. 

there’s something.

you, standing in the arena, raising your head, voice distorted and hoarse, thousands of your foremothers screaming in righteous fury.

you will not perceive me as i am.

he hadn’t, not until his fingers met the jagged ends of your scar. 

a bene gesserit trick.

“are you lost, my lord na-baron?”

a silhouette in the shadows, shrouded in veils. he can only make out a smile - sweet, charming. not enough to conceal the sharpness beneath. witch. 

he remains silent. 

“what will you do with lady atreides?”

his resolve weakens. here, in the dead silence of the hall, he speaks:

“she will be mine.” a beat. the nervous twitch of his fingers, aching for a blade. “is it not what you intended, witch?”

he knows she is smiling, the bene gesserit facing him. 

plans within plans within plans. atreides, harkonnen, corrino, dozens of great houses and they’re none the wiser.

“it was.”

**

none of it is real, it is all an illusion - your touch is wrong, your judgment unjust, faltering. dreams have meaning, this must be one. you can still taste the sands of arrakis, hear the screams of the billions of people starving, begging-

you rise in your bed - information flashes.

a bed. bandages wrapped tightly around your side. harsh, cold walls. antiseptic. blood - a medical wing. 

feyd rautha.

you startle. he’s watching you, head slightly tilted to the side. assesses you still, gaze raking over the thin fabric of the covers.

his gaze is free to roam the expanse of your bare throat, to trail down to the dips of your collarbones, to the swell of your naked breasts. you shiver.

“is the sight to your liking, my lord na-baron?”

a chuckle like a rattlesnake. he steps closer, until he’s all but hovering above you, hand lightly pressing down on the mattress below.

“will you have me, my wife?”

you blink.

“we’re not-”

his fingers run up your wrist, press against the long scar marring your forearm. 

“does it truly matter? you were made to be mine.” slowly, he sinks to his knees, glacier eyes smoldering in the penumbra. “and i was made to be yours.”

generations of prefect planning for this - you, last atreides left standing, and him, feyd rautha harkonnen, alone in the same room, bred for one another, for the kwisatz haderach to be conceived.

you raise your hand, cradling his cheek.

“have me, feyd-rautha.”

he presses a kiss to your palm, your inner wrist. he grins, black teeth like a gaping maw ready to sink into the marrow of you. your pulse jumps at that, rabbit-quick against the thin skin of your wrist. he feels it, with the way his thumb presses down on the delicate flesh. 

his hand slithers under the covers, drags them down, until your side is completely exposed. he presses a kiss there, too, on the stitched up wound at your side. it’ll scar. a living, breathing reminder of him, of the kiss of his blade on your skin. the weapon is in his hand before you know it, slicing through bandages.

you feel his breath before you feel the press of his lips on your side. you gasp, fingers reaching for him, digging in his nape.

his tongue meets raw flesh, teeth worrying at the stitches until they snap. his nail rakes the cut, spreads its edges apart until liquid warmth blossoms at your side, trickling down your ribs. 

you scream.

his lips slam against your own. warm. scorching. bruising. he presses himself to you like he wants to sink in the marrow of you and taste.

your hand raises to his chest, a meek press against his heart, fingers weaving with the velvet shadows of his jacket. 

closer.

he growls. low, primal, needy. pushes his fingers in the gaping wound at your side - white hot pain surges through you. your mind grows blank. agony never felt so sweet. 

your lips part in a cry - he swallows it down with greedy laughter. 

you feel him smile against your lips, tongue reaching out for yours. heavy. you bring him closer. his hand twists, index curling up. you think he wants to reach your heart and never let go.

“feyd-”

he stills. nips at your lip one last time, backing away. a spider-web string of saliva links you both. he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you with a low hum. desire curls inside your lower belly.

“more,” you beg.

“where?”

you take his hand, bring it between your thighs, face heating up. he’s laughing, feyd rautha, the tip of his blood-soaked fingers brushing your cunt. 

you gasp at that, at the way he spreads you apart, sinks into you with shameless abandon. you whine as you feel his fingers curl oh so sweetly.

he’s watching you. leaning closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your inner thigh, until- 

until his lips press against your heat, tongue lapping at you. you mewl, hand pressing him closer, nails sinking into his nape. you feel him growl against you, a low, needy sound as he tastes you, consumes you, tongue flicking against your clit.

something’s building in you, agonizingly warm, blistering fire spreading over your skin. a low vibration.

he’s purring, you realize, eyes closed in bliss as he laps at you, tongue delving into you, your essence running down his chin. you bite your lip until you taste blood. 

it’s all too much.

the way his fingers have you keening his name like holy prayer. the way his tongue burns a path of desire over your slit, skilled little licks having you thrash in his grip, the low vibration of his purr having you squirming in his grasp. his free hand tightens around your thigh, pulls you closer. 

his gaze flits to yours, glacier eyes melting under the weight of his desire. 

you cum with a whine of his name, a plea for him to stop, to give you more, to please please please, keep touching you. 

his eyes roll in the back of his skull at that. at the sight of you, lips parted in sinful euphoria, head thrown back under a tidal wave of pleasure. more. he needs more.

he grasps your hand, presses it against the length of his clothed cock, hard, throbbing, yearning for your touch.

“will you have me?”

“yes.”

as it was meant to be. him and you, bodies pressed so close nothing could come between the two of you, your nails digging in his back as he eases himself into you with a low hiss of pleasure.

him, pressing his lips in the crook of your neck, teeth nibbling at the tender flesh as his hips slowly rock into you.

“mine,” he growls, forehead against yours, picking up his pace until you’re gasping for breath. “mine.”

you close your fingers around his. press a kiss to his lips - you’re so full, so delectably full, your legs crossing over his lower back, driving him closer still.

his teeth break your skin, your lips painted over in blood. the sight has him moaning, reaching out between your legs to rub at your clit until you’re keening his name.

his release follows yours - he groans your name in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering madly against yours. 

your breaths mingle - two pieces of the same puzzle slotting against one another. complete. you’re whole, pressed against the broad expanse of his chest, his cock settled snugly in your pussy.

you can almost feel it, the satisfied smile of the reverend mother. an heir has been secured, deep in the confines of your womb, growing, second after second. a boy - the kwisatz haderach.

that wretched eons long plan doesn’t matter. not now, not when you run your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jaw, marveling at him.

“mine,” you mutter.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[shadowfear-art]

Nika's Skin Madness au

(Toon Transformation but acts like a slow progressing madness sickness...)

Cross guild trio are after a group of thieves that owed them only to find their mangled bodies in an underground cavern.

It appears to be an abandoned blasphemous version of a 'Nika temple' and Crocodile being the one to catch a curse (or blessing, according to the creepy locals) that was placed on the area.

Before the fever his motor functions were a little off causing a clumsy-like behavior, mildly frustrating Crocodile. Buggy swears he hears distant random noises when these accidents happen (cartoon sound effects) a few other crew men can hear them too.

on the ship ride back Buggy and Mihawk have to watch as their loved one is deteriorating from this "disease"...

Reads like doomed old man yaoi but happy enough ending