#dark tower theory

[the-king-and-the-druidess]

Point to the "Morgause enchanted Morgana" theory: Arthur and Merlin are talking about "what made her so twisted" in the very Dark Tower episode, making the ep's plot a non-direct answer to this question. What was it?

And the core of the enchantment is not the Tower, the building itself but the mandrake and psychological suffering it causes. Who else used hexing with mandrakes? Morgause. Uther felt something like Gwen because of the root.

Other points supporting the theory: very drastic shift in Morgana's perception of her friends she loved before. Betrayal of her compassion for Camelot commoners. Changed mannerism: smirks, falsity, coldheartedness (Gwen started acting like Morgana when mandraked). The way mandraked!Gwen interacted with Morgana is basically the way Morgana interacted with Morgause in S3. Fact that Morgana became too obsessed with the goals Morgause gave her even when it was not important (Gwen's marriage). Mandraked people can feel too, we see Gwen hurting and going away when Sarrum told how he tortured Morgana and Aithusa, we see her remembering her good moments with Arthur. From Morgause's side, using the mandrake on Morgana would not be considered something evil, but just a little help for her lost younger sister; she had already used Morgana without her knowledge.

Contrapoints: Morgana has been experiencing emotional suffering and fear before 2.12 and Morgause. Poisoning became the last straw. She already was planning to do something with Uther and his regime, she was suppressing her rage at his injustice. Separation from Arthur and friends, Morgause's teachings and later, Uther's betrayal(when he rejected her as his daughter) tore apart bonds Morgana had with them, she began seeing them as her enemies siding with her biggest enemy. She was broken because no one, including Merlin, never showed her other way. Morgause sculpted a revolutionary out of clay which has already begun to shape itself. Also, wouldn't the root charm have broken after Morgause's death? It's a blind spot of the mandrake sorcery. Or maybe only love, light and will to return to innocence of the mandraked person can break the enchantment?

On the other hand at that moment the camera shifts on Merlin after Arthur asked the question, hinting at Merlin's role in poisoning Morgana. Most of the time I think that emotional torture Gwen experienced there: fear, misery, darkness, thoughts that everyone hates her etc Morgana experienced on her own, maybe with a little non-magical push from Morgause, and this twisted her. What Gwen experienced once, Morgana experienced many times, plus Gwen always had a softer and kinder nature so in order to change her one had to use an enchantment. (Yes, it implies a very black and white good vs evil).

But I believe the theory can coexist with the most obvious explanation.

[i-am-trans-gwender]

But did Karl Marx put into account Kermit causing 9/11?

[nimrism]

could you make this post? please, it's so fascinating i really want to hear your thoughts on it

"The Dark Tower" Morgwen Interactions Analysis

i've literally been waiting for someone to ask me this so i can go all out in answer, so you're literally my favorite- THANK YOU! i've tried to put all the thoughts swirling around in my head into one coherent post, so strap in and let's LOOK AT THE IMPLICATIONS (from my perspective)!

first and most importantly, i want to zero in on morgana's choice of kidnapee; she could've chosen anyone in camelot, any one of the knigts who were regularly privy to arthur's battle plans and schedule, but nope. if we're looking at it from the perspective of "she needs the closest person to arthur" wouldn't that be merlin? she could have kidnapped and brainwashed him; he would've made for a fabulous inconspicious mole in the court, and arthur literally goes to him for anything and everything. i actually think it would make for a really interesting au/fic if it were merlin who was kidnapped instead of gwen (love confession/magic reveal possibilities are ENDLESS), but maybe it's a little too close to the plot of "a servant of two masters" and the writers didn't want to be repetitive. i'm going to be biased and delusional in believing that morgana did choose gwen, in particular, for more personal reasons as well as for her nefarious ones.

the way i see it (and this is obviously very objective), by the time we get to this point in s5, morgana is LONELY, like, has-no-one-in-the-world-except-aithusa type of lonely, and her choice of allies has been lacking diversity as of late (why are they all men 💀), AND they all end up dying anyway. so, she needs a plan, and she needs a trusted ally (she also needs a bit of love and lip balm cause DAMN). BUT the thing is, why would anyone be loyal to her? she's never kept any allies (or friends) thanks to her wit and charm alone, she's only ever kept men loyal to her by striking fear in their hearts. it's the same for her friends and family, i think. she doesn't believe they even tolerate her existence, so she needs to be crowned queen to subdue them and FORCE them to respect her. the same goes for gwen. she was only morgana's friend when morgana was a naive and vulnerable girl, plagued by nightmares and unexplained fears, and the second morgana grew out of them (or learned to control them) gwen stopped being affectionate, stopped being open. that's how morgana sees it, and it only reinforces her belief that gwen would never understand the person she's become now, she wouldn't quite see what morgana was trying to do. unless morgana forced her to.

the whole kidnapping affair was to MAKE gwen understand, because she wouldn't do it of her own free will. gwen would never willingly be on morgana's side, so she had to jump through a few morally questionable hoops to bring her over. in the end, i do believe all morgana really wanted was a friend (maybe a little bit more, amirite ladies), though by this point her concept of friendship had become twisted beyond recognition, and in all the chaos, this was the only way she thought she could have one. throughout the episode, a lot of the old morgana shines through, even if it is portrayed as just manipulation, and i do think that was her either slipping back into old habits or forcing herself to, for the sake of the brainwashing and for the sake of their friendship that she's trying to rekindle.

a point that i've seen several people make is that between the niceties, the "real" morgana peeks through several times throughout the ep, but i kinda disagree. i don't necessarily think that just because her smile drops, it means that the niceties were a facade and her "evil" side pops back out. i read the sudden change in expression more as disappointment. gwen fights back with such vigour that it's probably painful for morgana to realize that her former friend sees her as nothing more than an evil witch who's hell-bent on hurting her, now. she's disappointed that gwen, who was supposed to know her best, believes what the others do, and doesn't believe that morgana is being sincere in her offer of friendship.

a small remark i also have is: why wasn't morgana one of the visions/hallucinations gwen had in the dark tower? it's interesting to see that the closest three people to gwen are her brother, arthur, and merlin, of all people. i feel like gwen's history with morgana has to have had a lasting effect on both of them, even if morgana is supposed to be "evil" now. you don't stop loving someone just because they've chosen (or BEEN chosen by) the dark side. morgana was one of the people gwen cared about most in seasons 1 through 3 (s3 is pushing it a little, but still), it doesn't really make sense for it all to be forgotten so completely like we see in this episode. i also think it would've been super interesting to see a hallucination of younger morgana in particular, partially as a reminder that part of gwen still cares about morgana and largely because i'd like to see how gwen would react to that vision... would it differ from the other three? what would morgana do? would she sneer and laugh like elyan and arthur? would she do a little rawr like merlin (😭)? i feel like a ficlet is in order for this concept cause i would like to see it but i have to imagine it first (but that's the hard part 😭)

NOW ONTO THE MOST DELICIOUS PART OF THIS ANALYSIS: THE QUOTES

M: "Would you prefer some chicken?"

i just found this one hilarious tbh like she's so out of pocket what are you doing offering your kidnapee some chicken and WHAT WAS THE OTHER OPTION, IF NOT CHICKEN?

M: "I know how lonely you must be, all by yourself in that room. At least you're not shackled, and there's daylight. You can move, you can see."

oof. she's obviously referring to her own capture and torture, pulling from her own experience. it's heartwrenching that morgana has been through all of this, traumatised beyond reason, but it's even more heartwrenching that she thinks she's doing gwen a service, like this. it might not seem like that to any sane person, but after everything she's been through, morgana's worldview is completely different. in her mind, however twisted and detached it has become, she's being merciful to gwen this way, giving her luxuries that she was never afforded when she was captured. (including a warm meal with chicken at miss havisham's table 🤩)

M: "I too have suffered, Gwen. I spent two years living in darkness. I spent two years chained to a wall at the bottom of a pit... You did not know."

goddddd this line... it's just so painful, so powerful, so indicative of SO MANY THINGS. it's EVERYTHING. every acting choice katie and angel made in this scene was brilliant but ESPECIALLY their facial expressions in this particular part WOAH. the way morgana's voice cracks on the word "pit" is DEVASTATING. i was floored. the way gwen's face falls as she processes her words and they properly set in... INCREDIBLE. the concern in gwen's eyes is palpable as she realizes the horrors inflicted on her friend. and the final "you did not know" was so, so powerful. morgana realizes that gwen didn't know about and clearly wasn't okay with what she went through. gwen had no part in it. morgana SMILES at gwen's reaction, but instead of it being a smile of malice or evil it's one of RELIEF, and one that she hides very promptly. she's reassured in the knowledge that gwen had no idea she had suffered so immensely, and that, more importantly, she wasn't involved in it. it's SO important to note that morgana has no idea whether arthur had a hand in her own torture or not. it's especially not a good look on him that he invites the sarrum as a friend of camelot so soon after the events of "the dark tower", so, as far as morgana knows, he could've been a "friend" when she was being tortured for years, too. i wonder what would've happened if morgana had kidnapped gwen AFTER the sarrum's visit to camelot... i feel like that would have complicated things with gwen much further, if morgana thought she was complicit in her imprisonment.

M: "I would have sold my soul for someone to show me kindness such as this."

only two points on this heartbreaking line: 1- FUCK the sarrum of amata. all my homies HATE the sarrum. s4 and s5 morgana might both be textbook cases of "evil", but they're two VERY different people with two very different worldviews and tactics. morgana's imprisonment turned her into the cold husk of a person she is by s5. and 2- this just further confirms that morgana thinks she's doing gwen a favor, dining with her and letting sunlight into her room and choosing not to tie her up etc.

M: "Your hands are cold... I have a warm fire going for you."

oh boy is this a MOMENT. the way morgana keeps her hand held out. the way gwen reluctantly puts her hand in hers (MORGWEN HAND-HOLD!) *ivy by taylor swift starts playing out of nowhere* {ohhhhh goddamn, my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine, but it's been promised to another, ohhh}

um anyway i digressed. then the way gwen wriggles her hand out of morgana's grasp, while morgana grips her fingers with unwavering determination... it's just delicious.

M: "Anything you want, you can have. I'll give it to you."

idk about you but personally i'm SOLD. take all my money. i read this as morgana trying her utmost best to sell gwen on joining her, but i can also see the manipulation laced in it.

G: "Why are you doing this?"

M: "Because we're friends. We always were."

to me, this reinforces the theory that morgana's just trying to get her friend back on her side. by stating that they've always been friends, morgana reaffirms their friendship as much to herself as to gwen. she was her friend once, and she can be again.

M: "I'm helping you. I'm looking after you."

this sort of feels like morgana is telling herself that, more than she's telling gwen. maybe it's just part of the manipulation process, but i do believe that this was morgana's conscience reassuring her that what she's doing is in gwen's favor and that she's being kind to her.

M: "It's alright, I'm here."

UGH this line. morgana is being the person she needed when she was imprisoned. this scene is also a parallel to all the times morgana woke up screaming in the middle of the night and gwen was there to comfort her in s1/2. this time the tables have turned and it's morgana comforting gwen. simply delicious.

M: "My darling, I was wrong to make you suffer."

TEA! to say that this line was spoken from the bottom of morgana's heart might just be a bit too delusional, but i like to think there's at least some truth to it. torturing gwen had a lot of paralells to morgana's own imprisonment and torture, and she did want to make her suffer, at least in the beginning. but it was also different from what morgana went through. this is NOT to justify torture, btw, torture is BAD, but her "manipulation" tactics got a bit too personal at some point, and i like to think at least a part of it was genuine.

G: "No. Whatever twisted game you're playing, I want no part in it. I would rather stay here and die."

ouch. gwen's resistance to the last possible minute shows such strength on her part (cause me? i would've given in before she even dragged me through the desert tbh) and it gave us such a delicious performance from angel; the reluctance? the uncertainty? the distrust? the relief that morgana is there but also the FEAR of what she's doing? the contradiction between the morgana that gwen once knew and the morgana that everyone KNOWS is evil? but the morgana that gwen once knew is shining through now, and she's saying everything gwen wants to hear... grade-A angst.

IN CONCLUSION they're gfs your honor, this was all just a plot to snatch gwen back from arthur cause morgana didn't think seducing her herself would work. (this phrase could be in reference to this ep or the "lancelot du lac" ep i'm cackling morgana really is hopeless) there are also SEVERAL psychological layers to it, but describing it this way is just easier.

SO... this is possibly the longest post i've ever made. it got a little more comprehensive than i originally thought it would be, but THERE YOU HAVE IT! that's my take on the morgwen interactions in the dark tower. if i seem a little biased, that's because i 100% am :) i hope that clears things up. this is an open invitation to keep sending me asks (even if it's about the most random things ever) cause i love them and i love every single person who sends in an ask, and a public apology for how long these answers get sometimes 😭

[plenilune]

I'm Going To Get Worse Summer Spring is upon us

[tiialosu]

My friend gave me permission to post one of her awesome theories/headcanons here in her name so

Disclaimer: This contains spoilers to Cookie Odyssey and TOSC. English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for all the mistakes!!

“Parallels between “Tower of Sweet Chaos” and the main story”

TOSC is one of the most interesting stories in crk, it might not make sense, but there’s possibility the entire storyline is just a parallel to main story. So silly! The known members of Pastry’s Order could represent the 3 currently playable ancients.

Let’s start with obvious one - Reverend Mother represents Pure Vanilla. The most visible similarity between them are their closed eyes, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Another similarity between them is.. hiding the truth. They both hide the truth, to protect their own ideals. But that’s the most noticeable similarity between tosc and main story, let’s see the less obvious ones now!

Shadow Sister represents Hollyberry. They both, despite knowing the truth, still blindly follow their “leaders”. We can see this trait in Hollyberry at the end of cookie odyssey, where, even though she knows the truth about White Lily, she easily let her go just because Pure Vanilla told her to. Because “She is not the White Lily we know!”. That is also how I believe that Pure Vanilla separates pre-game White Lily from Dark Enchantress (that is just a headcanon tho).

Pastry represents Dark Cacao. They both could blindly follow their “leaders”, but once they learned the truth, they had hard time letting it go, unlike the others. In the odyssey, instead of accepting White Lily as different person from Dark Enchantress, he wanted to talk to her, understand her. He didn’t want to ignore the truth after learning it.

Tbh that’s one of my favorite theories/hc that she thought of!!!

[sharoscylla]

you decide that he can’t die if you can hear his heartbeat and you hold him close so that he can never die

you decide that he’ll be safe with you because he’s the only safety you’ve ever known

bird and bear and hare and fish, give my love his fondest wish

rat and lion, wolf and bat, always bring my lover back

elephant, turtle, dog and horse, forever in ka’s due course

🦅🐻🐰🐟

Jamie DeCurry and Thomas Whitman, aka Roland’s Buddies That Barely Get Mentioned Over A Billion Books

Maybe they didn’t die when Cuthbert and Alain did, maybe they left before Jericho Hill, maybe to be a part of Roland Deschain’s ka-tet wasn’t always a death sentence.

maybe on some levels of the tower they are all happy and alive and in each other’s arms

This probably makes a lot more sense if you’ve read my fic “everything is different the second time around”

[bentothuglife]

Some of us On Here enjoy jokingly calling The Divine Comedy self-insert fanfiction and then the Dante scholars come in talking about conventions of the genre and historical accuracy, but I think there's one thing we can all agree on

The Dark Tower is Stephen King's Sergio Leone/Clint Eastwood self-insert fanfic

[isaacathom]

todays ttrpg session began with honest to god verbal pvp and ended with a funeral for a party member, with these two events in fact being directly connected and causing the other.

[ew-selfish-art]

DpxDc AU: Tim as a child was never given a lot of information regarding the scribbling messy handwriting that appeared over night all over his arms- naturally he came to his own conclusions.

Tim Drake was home entirely alone at 9 years old and was about to go out for the night to test his brand new long exposure camera lens when he sees the writing on his arm. It’s not English, like he assumed it was at first, but it was using the alphabet to represent… Tim isn’t bad at math but this formula is complex for his little genius brain.

Looking at his camera, he decides he can spare a moment to look it up, solve it, and get back out into old town Gotham in time for Batman and Robin’s final patrol lap. He does just that, finding the problem to relate to some aerospace engineering and then quickly deduces what laws and theorems need to be applied. He finds a pen, writes down his findings in much neater handwriting onto his arm, and goes out. It’s barely a remarkable night at all. He gets a much more memorable photo of Robin roundhouse kicking a hench person.

Things just continued on that way. Tim would find some complex math, physics or chemistry prompt on his arm (surrounded by various question marks or notes or sad faces)- he’d answer it as best he could and move on with his life. Perhaps his parents were manifesting these pop quizzes? Perhaps his subconscious felt guilty about abandoning his studies for more Bat related pursuits? Tim really didn’t care to think much about it once he became Robin- there was too much on his plate and too many peoples problems for him to fix.

Notably, however, after the attack at the Tower, the pop quiz appeared and Tim wrote back that he wouldn’t be able to find an answer to this one. It was the only time Tim questioned the markings appearance and it was because the next thing that appeared was “Hope you feel better soon.”

… his parents wouldn’t include that on a pop quiz. Cursed then. Tim decided it must be a curse, whatever, he’d deal with the implications later in life.

Tim then has the worst year of his life, hes 15, no longer Robin and the questions from his curse are getting less math oriented and more… philosophical. A lot of mentions of death that, in hindsight helped him actually grieve, and a lot of theories about dark matter and souls. Tim answers back as best he can but he’s drained and his answers aren’t very good in his opinion. He gets minimal feedback.

It all comes to a point that he’s at a family dinner, Bruce is at the head of the table, Jason has promised just to stay for dessert, Damian hasn’t thrown a single insult his way and Steph was laughing at him- when a new theoretical model appears on his arm.

“You’re just as bad as Bruce, Timberly. Hiding a soulmate from all of us, how fucking typical.” Jason points out, while watching Tim scribble back some math with a question mark onto his arm.

“A what? No, this is just a curse. I get pop quizzes every now and then.” Tim bats away Steph who rapidly approaches and began to analyze his arm (the rest of the family isn’t far behind).

“Drake. Explain how you came to this conclusion.” Damian seems more curious than anything, if his lack of insults was anything to go off of.

“Since I was young I’ve had at least weekly math check ins, I never had a parent or anyone else around so I assumed my parents had me cursed to ensure I stayed on top of my studies. Sometimes it’s physics or chemistry, for a while there it was a ton of philosophy and behavioral psychology.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Master Tim, I believe the lack of adults in your life has led you towards a false conclusion. That is most certainly a soulmate mark. The individual to whom you are responding is undoubtedly your other half.” Alfred attempts to calm the room before explaining to Tim. Tim isnt sure if he believes the butler, though Alfred only very rarely lied, so he grabs the pen once more. He writes his first question back: “Who am I to you?”

The room waits in anticipation and within moments a brand new line appears on Tim’s arm and he is vindicated: “We do math together???”

——

The reason Danny is failing English is because his built in homework helper sucks ass at metaphors and has apparently never read any classic literature. The tutor on his arm is great at puzzles and math tho.

Danny gets a reply back one night that he wasn’t expecting (Who am I to you?) and he mentions it to Jazz. Who goes insane that Danny didn’t even question it and just went with “meh, probably haunted” as his explanation for the phenomenon for all these years.

Apparently, if Jazz was right, he had a soulmate who was uh, super fucking smart. That was an overwhelming thought.

The next day Danny is in crisis mode and writes back “Wait, WHAT AM I TO YOU??? Can I help on your homework??”

Danny gets vindicated when the writing on his arm presents a shit ton of dates and information for an unsolved Gotham cold case. See, Haunted.

———

Eventually between Danny becoming the top candidate for astrophysics at Wayne Enterprises and Tim Drake being outed as having contributed tips to the GCPD that solved cold cases- they meet and realize just how dumb they’ve been.

[the-king-and-the-druidess]

New (or not?) theory: blocking Morgana's prophetic visions inside damaged her psyche.

[marypaol]

Fingers Through Your Hair

Draco x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader plays with Draco’s hair while he sleeps.

Warnings: Watching/touching/admiring someone while they sleep? Mention of suspense while reading a book, tenseness during slumber, mention of being trapped, think that’s it. :)

Sorry if it’s too short, I kinda rushed it. Hope you guys enjoy!

Masterlist

Request Requirements

The stack of pages was held in her hands, twinkling eyes scanning the pages as her mind took in the exciting story. Pale fingers was tracing mindless shapes on the skin of her arm, the pace changing every minute or so.

The climax was just on the verge of happening, eyeballs practically skipping over sentences as she died to know what happened next. The face to face encounter of the protagonist and the antagonist was too great, her brain wiring at the information being sprayed at her. Her stomach twisted, eyes danced, and she could feel sweat building on her head. Her eyes widened, the story revealing a secret that she couldn’t bear to face or figure out. Or, that’s what some people would think. She of course hadn’t had any trouble figuring the secrets of the book, digging through the clues that were dropped casually throughout the story and putting them together to make a puzzle picture that was just discovered to most readers. (But not to her of course. She already figured it all out.)

For the reason of her eyes widening was the fact that she got it correct, her assumptions and theories she gathered turned out to be right the whole time.

She found herself lost in the pages that the book had to offer, truly getting sucked in the imaginary world the author created for entertainment.

But wouldn’t it be lovely and truly divine, she thought, setting the book down once she finished it. If the world that was so imaginative and fictional was real?

She sighed at the thought, picturing herself trapped in a tower in a dark abandoned land, looking hopelessly out the window for her lover to arrive and successfully rescue her.

For she knew who would come and serve her right. He would be the only person who would, not that others wouldn’t try only to face him.

But platinum hair was best suited for her, for she wouldn’t have any other interests but he.

Thinking of him now, she just then discovered that his fingers halted their movements not too long before, and her mind couldn’t help but wonder what the purpose was.

She looked over at her love, only to find him in soft gentle slumber, eyelashes tangled together as his pillow lips parted for a quiet breath.

She smiled soft, hand reaching over to cover him more with the blanket he had himself wrapped in, only for it to previously roll down his shoulders.

She then laid down softly next to him, her elbow holding her up as she used the same arm to place it near his head, almost like she was protecting him.

The face of her love was closer to her, so she now noticed the soft crease in his eyebrows, along sided with the visible tenseness on his shoulders. She shook her head softly, for that simply couldn’t do, and so she pointed out her pinky finger and reached for his forehead. Her finger practically brushed his skin, in between his eyebrows, stroking the crease away as she watch a sense of peace come over him, his eyebrows raising in a calming manner.

She smiled then, knowing he was peaceful now because of her doing.

She then lent forward, lips puckering as she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, fingers uncontrollably going to his hair strands. His hair was very soft, and how he kept it that she didn’t know, but that was his secret to keep because she simply liked wondering how he did it. Once her fingers reached a soft knot in his strands, most likely from his hands digging into his hair anxiously throughout the day, she was worried if she undid it with her fingers it would wake him up, so she carefully grabbed her wand, wood smooth beneath her finger tips.

She pointed the tip to his hair, whispering soft Charms as she watched the strands undo themselves. She smiled soft, putting her wand away as it was now long forgotten, her mind swarming with thoughts of her lover.

She sighed contently, fingers brushing through his hair slowly.

A intake of breath was heard, forcing her attention to his soft face. It scrunched up for a second, eyes fluttering as his silver eyes opened. He blinked a couple times, moonlight reflecting in his pupils making his orbs sparkle. He felt the touch in his hair, the extra blanket covering him, and his eyes met hers.

His lips curved into a soft smile, left hand reaching for her as it soon rested on her thigh, stroking the skin through the fabric.

“Hey, loves.” His voice was groggy and deep, but she liked it. She replied with a smile, fingers moving in his hair once again.

A sigh escaped his lips, head turning to rest near her chest, chasing for warmth. She kissed his forehead once again, mouth leaning towards his ear. The skin was warm on her lips as she whispered the truth. “I love you.”

She felt his lips stretch into a soft smile against her clothes, so she smiled too. His smile always made her smile, despite if she could see it or not.

“Oh but I love you most.” He mumbled into her shirt, voice muffled but she heard him all too well.

A flush came about her cheeks, traveling to her ears.

“Doubt it.” She replied, despite her red face.

Draco answered with a hum. Either he didn’t hear her, or did and chose to ignore it.

“You smell good loves; new shampoo perhaps?”

“Draco, I’ve been using this shampoo since First Year.”

Draco hummed again, snuggling his face into her neck. She heard him sniff as he smelled her hair again. “Mm? First Year? I should smell your hair more often loves.”

The girl rolled her eyes, stroking the hair on the back of his neck. She kissed it, keeping her mouth pressed there as her nose touched his warm skin.

“Ahh. This feels nice.” Draco murmured. She then felt him smirk into her neck. “What do you say we do this more often?”

[starmocha]

So the preview of the new theme song uses imagery of the guys' myths, including Sylus'. Rafayel, Xavier, and Zayne, I think we are all fairly familiar with, but since Sylus is not released yet, there are a lot of speculations about what kind of tragic past he and MC shared. Let's try to break it down. Or make it more confusing. 🫠

Interestingly, before the "tragedy" we see their wrists are bounded together by a red thread.....perhaps....the Red Thread of Fate? As the saying goes, rough paraphrasing on my part: Two lovers, regardless of time, place, and circumstances, are destined to be together, connected by a single red thread. The red thread may twist and tangle, but it may never break.

However, as we can see in the video, Sylus and MC's thread does break, and unlike in the traditional belief, their thread is wrapped around their wrists and not fingers. As the thread breaks, we also see Sylus behind bars. Imprisonment? A crime?

Speaking of wrists, another thing I've noticed with Sylus' trailers is that it involves handcuffs a lot, which seems more significant now in light of this preview.

Especially since we see him also breaking them so easily.

I kind of made a passing joke in the tags of a previous post that Sylus' upcoming chapters carry shades of the Greek myth with Hades and Persephone, but perhaps I may not be too far off?

Just take a look at this wide view of the scene of Sylus and MC separated:

The N109 Zone is shown during the night with a bright red moon, giving a feeling reminiscent of the Underworld ruled by Hades. Note how it looks like Sylus is behind bars, a prison, if you will. In Greek mythology, Hades was tasked with ruling the Underworld, not by his choice, but the wills of others (so in a sense: trapped). Could this mean that perhaps Sylus has no desire to be the leader of Onychinus? Could he be bounded there against his will?

Meanwhile, MC is shown on the side of light. If we compare her to Persephone, she is on the surface world with other people. But from the preview, it looks like she is abducted and taken to the N109 Zone, much like Persephone was abducted and taken to the Underworld to be Hades' bride.

(Brief unserious interlude, because I want to spread my Hades/Persephone agenda:

Sylus is the Hades to MC's Persephone

The dark to her light

He is feared by everyone except her.

He'll let her get away with everything (covering him in silly band-aids, poking him in the side) because he adores her.

If anything happens to her, the world will feel his wrath.

He embodies the feeling of "if anything happens to her, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself."

In short, scary leader is big softie for his wifey and I am willing to die on this hill

OK. End interlude.)

Also, um... 😭

Bringing up the theory that Sylus is trapped? The Beast is trapped in the castle because of the curse by an enchantress. I seriously couldn't get this comparison out of my mind when I saw the dancing scene in the trailer, so it feels appropriate to bring it up here.

Perhaps like the Beast initially, Sylus does display a very dominating and aggressive temperament, but then in his 5* memory, Captivating Flavor, he seems more approachable, so perhaps we will soften him over time?

Now...since Infold had the audacity to drop that trailer while I was writing this, here is another example of them going with the trapped/caged/bounded theory (there is also an image of a bear trap earlier, but I'm at my 10-pic limit, so the cage seems more obvious (and aesthetically pleasing lol)

So could Sylus be trapped in the same way as the Foreseer is trapped within the Tower? But unlike the Foreseer, Sylus is always trying to break free from his chains. Circling back to his myth, could it be that his tie with MC was broken...by him? Perhaps out of a sense of protection? For her sake?

In Beauty and the Beast, the Beast was willing to let Belle go, to be killed by Gaston, to succumb to the curse, all for the sake of Belle's happiness and freedom.

In the myth of Hades and Persephone, Persephone was allowed to leave the Underworld to return to her mother for half a year, but since she ate a few pomegranate seeds, food from the Underworld, she was also bounded to return to the Underworld for the other half to be with her husband. Each year, the cycle returns. Come spring, Hades must let his beloved wife leave him for half a year, and there's nothing he can do to change it.

Bonus Greek myth tidbit: the crow plays a significant part in a myth involving the sun god Apollo, where it acts as a messenger for him. The crow, once white, was burned and turned black, as retribution for telling the truth (revealing an affair) that led to Apollo killing his lover.

So, let's recap real quick the symbolism we have seen. 🤔

Handcuffs: bounded

Bars: imprisonment

Bear trap (couldn't include the pic, but it's there, trust me): caught, trapped

Birdcage: trapped, caged

The crow: a messenger; punished for revealing the truth (so, punishment)

So, gathering my random little thoughts...

Theory 1: Sylus and MC must have been destined lovers in a past life, but due to whatever conflict, Sylus decided to break his bond with her for her protection and accept any punishment that comes with it, which could mean to be ruler of a place he has no desire for, an imprisonment of sort.

Theory 2: Destined lovers, but perhaps a third party interfered out of jealousy or spite. Could Sylus have been caught and framed of a crime and been literally imprisoned, thus forcing him and MC to separate?

Something to this effect, I think, from working with the crumbs I've gathered. It's also almost midnight as of the time of writing this, so my brain is feeling loopy now (also no thanks to that Sylus trailer that popped up while I was writing this 💀)

Anyhoo, make of all of this as you will. My Hades/Persephone agenda will persist.

[meo-eiru]

hey~

i wrote something about the holy horndog hehe

micah scares the shit out of me, but i love it

-----

“I know what you’ve been doing…”, your voice attempted to emulate confidence, but the priest’s presence pulsated eerily around you. His towering form hovered dangerously above you, as you attempted to stand your ground.

“Oh? You do?”, Micah’s voice remained collected, his hands hiding in his sleeves. You couldn’t see how intensely his fingers were gripping into each other. Seeing you always made him woozy. The permanent smile etched across his visage, as he tilted his head slightly.

“Illuminate me. What have you surmised?”, the silky tone invaded your ears. He had been doing many things, which were you referencing?

“That stuff you’ve been giving me. You’ve been lacing it with something. Everything…fogs and I wake up knowing you-“

The sudden appearance of his dark eyes piercing through the light lashes made you freeze. The voids halted any form of strength you previously mustered. Your body quaked. Surely, he could see how harshly your legs were shaking.

“My, my…”

He moved forward slowly, cornering you into the prickly rose bushes he tended to. You thought about trying to push him aside, but your limbs were so weak you could barely stand. Additionally, you feared what he would do if you attempted an escape.

“What a fascinating theory…” He lowered his face down to you, the dead eyes almost level with your own.

“A harsh accusation. Why would I do such a thing when…”

The pale arm slid out from his sleeve. His icy hand trailed up your neck, settling on your cheek and gripping the side of your face. The priest pulled you harshly towards him, his lips locking into yours as he pushed his tongue violently into your mouth. Your own tried to retreat back into your throat, to no avail. No matter how much you winced, Micah’s hold on your face was firm. The more you resisted, the harder his grip and kiss became.

He released from you, as you gasped for breath, tears stinging your eyes. Micah leered, triumphantly.

“…I can have what I want without such methods.”

Your lip quivered. The priest still held your face in place, remaining close to you. Your suspicions confirmed, you were now trapped. You had been careless: you shouldn’t have confronted him alone.

“You will join me in my office. Such slander needs to be punished appropriately.”

Micah released his hold on your face and put his hand on your back, steering you towards the church. Your body obeyed, sinking deeper into permanent panic as your limbs ignored your internal screams to bolt.

Micah smiled to himself, feeling the tremble in your vibrating spine.

If breaking you was the way to keep you, that's what he would do.

The dark eyes stared down at you, as he guided you to his office door.

OH GOD I LOVE THIS!!!!

“…I can have what I want without such methods.” THE CHILLS I GOT

[space-blue]

A Radical Messmer Theory

OKAY so hear me out.

I think we're all on top of things regarding how much Marika used to care for Messmer despite the embivalence of their relationship.

On one hand you have the OP healing vials she created for him and him only. You have his love and dedication to her. You have her taking his eye and giving her a seal that both locks the serpent but also hides the fact that he is GRACELESS.

Then you'll have things like how he hates his flame and tried to be rid of it, yet was clearly made to fight with it, in her name. How he wishes for hate and resentment to come to him and not her, yet she seems to have abandoned him.

BUT CONSIDER THIS!!

What if Marika sealed him away to keep him safe?

Because... If you are of the opinion that Marika has orchestrated the entire thing. That she exiled Godfrey and his people asking them to come back stronger because she was laying out a plan... That she hooked Ranni up with numen warriors to engineer Godwyn's death, then broke the Elden Ring purposefully...

And then took her punishment and set out to *wait* for the Tarnished to return and free her from the control of the Elden Beast...

Then it's possible that she veiled Messmer and exiled him to protect him FROM US. From the Shattering War.

After all, we can completely skip the DLC. Killing Mogh is completely optional. And the only reason we enter the shadow realm is because Miquella has discovered something of the gate of divinity and has been cooking up a plan for ages as well.

Miquella got thwarted and has been forced to wait in stasis until someone killed Radahn AND Mogh for ages. The moment he does, we have the opportunity to enter and follow, and because of that we have to kill Messmer.

But Marika's grace leads the way! you argue. Not until a certain point though, and most importantly: once Miquella is on his way to become a god (partially through your actions freeing the tower from shadows) then he becomes someone you need to kill because he's threatening the old order.

Marika is gambling on us, and when Miquella rises, she leads the way towards us defeating him and his consort, and then back to the main purpose.

But there's no reason to go kill Messmer. And if we don't, we can easily stipulate that Miquella's happy go lucky band of misfits also wouldn't have managed to bring him down, trapping Miquella's soul in the of shadows, once more in stasis waiting for a hurdle to be overcome for him.

It makes sense then, that the land of shadows, all considered, is the safest place for one of Marika's children to be. Out of the way. Without a great rune. He protects something she wants to keep secret, but maybe the secret itself protects him.

She sent him on that crusade around the time she married Radagon. Everyone theorises she wanted him out of the way to either have his true nature hidden out of shame or to protect him from backlash at the time, but imo she sent him to seal him away because :

1- she knows he's endlessly loyal and devoted

2- it gets her revenge underway and keeps her secrets

3- it gets Messmer out of the public eye in the moment

4- it keeps Messmer SAFE from the dark shit she's got planned that will wreck the lands between.

The Messmer most beloved son theory! The good Tarnished doesn't play the DLC, or does just long enough to run around but leaves Messmer alive and Miquella forever blue balled.

[preservationofnormalcy]

[My name is Meghan Hendricks, and I’m about to do something stupid.]

[I’ve scheduled my work to be sent to my superior in the federal government’s oversight committee unless I stop it in one week. A dead woman’s hand. It’ll be somewhat fruitless - I’ve begun to suspect that my work will be restricted, censored, and buried like most other things the Office does.

A lot of the people I talk to are exculpatory of the Office, even if they say they have questions or concerns. I think most of them mean it. I don’t think it’s brainwashing. I think in such a tighly knit community as the supernatural world people feel a more genuine sense of belonging than they might otherwise. A werewolf helping werewolves is going to understandably try and defend the hand that deals the help, even if they’ve bit it in the past. But one thing I’ve learned as I’ve been peeling up rocks and seeing what scurries away is that something isn’t right. Something is hiding in plain sight.

Most people don’t know about it. They can feel the shape of it, the outline the absence of something makes. Some people, however, do know. At least a little. I’ve seen them avoid questions, look away, end interviews. I can see it in their eyes. They know enough to not want to know more.

All of that brings me here, to the backwoods of upstate New York. I’m dressed in all black, wearing a mask and gloves. My clothing smells of peppermint, and in my bag is a bottle of peppermint oil. It stung my eyes and, before I got the dilution right, burned my skin. I look in my car’s rear view mirror and it hits me that I look ridiculous. I don’t know for sure why the factory foreman Barry warned me about the peppermint, but I had a theory. 

For the last few minutes I’d seen the shape rising into the air, the metal tower with red lights up its length. That was where I needed to be. The highway was thankfully bare, at this time of night. As was the turn-off onto an unmarked gravel road, only distinguishable by the Office’s symbol on a plastic sign, held up on a thin metal spike. I’d learned by now that the broader public couldn’t see the Office logos and signage until they’d been exposed to the extranormal, something the Office calls “memetic masking.” I was, in their terminology, memetically inoculated, and it was that fact that ironically helped me find the path. The gravel road went into the forest, but I pulled over past the road’s entry, into the small area of grass down past the turnoff. I pulled a tarp from my car and threw it over the vehicle, once again feeling ludicrous…and frankly, a little scared. 

The hike was about twenty minutes, mostly uphill on a gentle incline, the numbers station being built on a hill. I’d done worse, but not in a while. I could see pretty well in the light of the full moon, a fact that made me a little more nervous. I walked along the edge of the gravel road, in the dark - hiking onto a government facility, my nerves went wild. Every shift of leaves meant an agent clad in camo, every whip of wind causing a noise that made me think of the things I’d seen since I began this assignment. Not this assignment, I had to remind myself. This wasn’t part of it. Not really.

I saw the fence in the distance first - an eight foot chain link fence that stretched as far as I could see in either direction. Past the fence, I could see dark buildings, giant spools of wire, and above it all the metal tower of the station. I hadn’t exactly planned for this, even though I knew it was more than likely. The handheld cutters in my back pocket were ready, but something in me didn’t want to cut the links, even if I fully intended to pass the fence. Getting in some other way could be a blunder, accidental. Cutting the chain meant intent.]

C] 1 15 12 24 2 12 12 21 16 26 1 15 12 22 21 19 6 26 2 25 3 16 3 22 25

[The voice almost made me vomit. I spun and saw a man. Disheveled, haggard, an unkempt beard and long hair. Older, in his 50’s, but being dirty and ragged made him look even older. He didn’t even look at me, mumbling numbers so fast I could only understand them later once I slowed them down in my recording. After his string of digits he stood there, looking at the fence, then back to me. In the moon’s light I saw his dirty, torn jumpsuit, the logo for the Office on the man’s arm and chest, along with an embroidered nametag - Cecil.]

M] Wh- who are you? What are you doing here? 

C] 4 12 25 16 23 23 12 11 22 2 1 1 15 12 23 8 25 1 22 13 2 26 1 15 8 1 18 21 22 4 26 16 1 26 9 25 22 18 12 21

[His stare was distant, vacant. It was a shock when his hand moved suddenly, pointing upward to the moon. It took me a second to realize what he was saying, and when I did, it confirmed my suspicions.]

M] Here? Now? 

C] 1 15 12 6 19 19 23 2 21 16 26 15 15 16 20 13 22 25 19 16 3 16 21 14 1 15 25 22 2 14 15 16 1

[With that, he turned and walked away. He looked back once, pausing as if making sure I was following - which, despite my better judgment, I did. I attempted to ask him some more questions, trying to understand who he was or why he was here, but he didn’t respond. Not even with his numbers. 

After a moment of walking by the fence, we walked away from it, down the hill. A steep path, rocky and unstable, that he navigated with ease. It was only after climbing down past a tree and a rocky face that I noticed “Cecil” backtracking up a few steps. A huge drainage pipe jutted out from the hillside, hidden from above by rocks and plants. A piece of wood in the pipe was the only flimsy protection, and without hesitation Cecil pulled it aside and bent over to climb inside. Here I was, in the middle of the woods, about to climb into a dirty tunnel to a strange old man’s bunker. 

I could hear a match catch fire just as I stepped down onto a concrete floor and stood up past the metal pipe. The space was small, a concrete box that ended in a pile of rubble. It must have been the entrance to an underground section of the complex at one point, but now was only a covered shelter. A camp stove, a bed, an orderly pile of refuse. He was living hard out here, but he was living. Cecil put the match into an old oil lantern and held it up to one wall. ]

C] 13 16 21 16 1 12 2 21 16 3 12 25 26 12 13 16 21 16 1 12 1 22 22 19 26 4 12 19 22 22 18 12 11 9 12 6 22 21 11

[All over the concrete wall, pasted or taped, were papers. Mainly old documents from the Office, with the Office logo watermarked on their corners. Many of them featured heavy black redaction bars. Some were torn, upside down. Cut in patterns, circled with heavy marker lines. I’d seen things like this in movies, of course. The stereotypical red string and thumbtacks on corkboard. This was different, however. When I looked over the collage I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t a man trying to figure things out. He’d already figured it out, in his own way, and this was some kind of…archive. Memorial. A reminder. I looked at him, and he looked down to the floor. In shame? Sorrow? I couldn’t tell. I scanned the wall again, trying to find some order.  

‘Numbers Station 23 Decommissioned By Order Of Reality Compliance Council.’ ‘Bulletin From Director Walker On Directive 61722.’ ‘Los Angeles–’ the last one was torn off.]

C] 26 15 12 16 26 14 22 21 12 13 22 25 12 3 12 25 26 15 12 11 16 11 21 22 1 11 16 12

M] What is all this? Who ARE you?

C] 1 15 12 23 25 16 21 10 16 23 8 19 16 1 6 4 16 19 19 8 3 12 21 14 12 15 12 25

M] Listen, I – I don’t want numbers. Can you speak?

C] 15 16 26 13 2 1 2 25 12 16 26 2 21 18 21 22 4 8 9 19 12 8 21 11 1 15 2 26 16 21 13 16 21 16 1 12

M] You used to work for the Office…at the numbers station? This numbers station? Is that why you can only –

C] 4 12 18 16 19 19 12 11 25 12 8 19 16 1 6 1 22 26 1 22 23 15 16 20

[I must admit to some frustration. I scan the wall again. None of it made sense. Clearly it did to Cecil, otherwise he wouldn’t have saved all of this. Was the numbers station related to…what happened to my brother? Phrases leap out at me: ‘reality compliance’, ‘the equation’, ‘project dammerung.’ That last one was…all over. There were scraps, shreds with the phrase, but all of it redacted.]

M] What is this? Project Dammerung? 

C] 2 19 1 16 20 8 1 12 4 12 8 23 22 21 13 22 25 1 15 12 2 19 1 16 20 8 1 12 13 12 8 25

M] I don’t…I don’t have time for this. You know why I’m here. Are you going to help me, or not?

[Cecil was silent for once, looking around hesitantly, and finally back to the floor. I give him a moment to respond, and when he remains silent, I take in a breath.]

M] Right. Thank you, Mister…Cecil. I’ll…

[He raises his hand, almost as if he wanted to grab my arm, but was too timid. Raising the lantern to a section of the wall, he gestured to a particular document, from Office Security, or O-Sec. A photo of a serious-looking Asian-American man, Corporal Han. Most of the document was blacked out. Was this a warning? I take in the wall one last time, and drop my bag so I can reach for my camera. A polaroid - no digital trail, no getting the photos developed. With a click I snapped a photo of the wall. 

A noise distracted me. I turned, and Cecil was going through my bag.]

M] Uhh…sir? Cecil? 

[He stopped, looking up at me in almost surprise, as if he’d forgotten I was even there. ]

C] 1 15 12 12 20 16 26 26 8 25 6 26 14 25 8 21 11 11 8 2 14 15 1 12 25 4 16 19 19 1 8 18 12 15 16 26 23 19 8 10 12

[He slid the bag back over to me. I couldn’t figure out what he was looking for, but it didn’t matter now. I needed to get out of there. I put the camera back in, quickly checking that nothing was missing, and backed up towards the pipe.]

M] I know you showed me this for a reason. I’ll figure out how it all adds up, I promise. 

[I enter the pipe again, leaving the old man holding his lantern.]

M] Thank you.

[When I turn away, he looks to his wall one more time. 

I emerge alone into the moonlight, attempting the climb back up the hill. Though I had more scraps of information, I was back at square one, or so I thought. When I reached the top and made it back to the fence, I saw a section of the chain link that had broken, detached from the pole nearby and bent away, covered in a bush that only kept it half hidden. This must be where Cecil still entered the facility. 

The gap in the fence opened up into what seemed to be a storage yard, the place I’d seen past the fence earlier. Piles of tarp-covered metal or wood beams, spools of wire as tall as I was. In the moonlight, I could see poles dotting the yard, cables stretched between them, each one bearing a floodlight. Though everything had been organized and put away securely, I got the feeling no one official had been here in a long time. Leaves covered most surfaces, and cobwebs shone in the dim light along the roof of a nearby shed. 

Again, it struck me that I didn’t know what I was doing. Any information or leads would be in the building past the storage yard, and surely that had better security? Cameras, keycard locks - what was I even doing here? Walking through the yard, almost lost in thought - the tower of the station rose into the night sky in the distance, red lights along its length. They almost looked like eyes along the body of some thin creature, frozen against the stars. 

And then, lights near the station building. I stood still for a moment, uncomprehending until a pair of floodlights on poles a short distance away snapped on, then the next set. The lights were turning on this way, towards me. I had seconds to react, and I did what I’d practiced. In my bag’s side pocket was a plastic bag, containing a gross mess of wet cotton balls, soaked in diluted peppermint oil. Despite my panic, I threw them in all directions, slinging a handful of them in a wide arc, and then hid before the lights were on in my section of the yard. I could hear the electric buzz of the floodlights snapping on just as I ducked behind a row of wire spools, trying to stop my racing heart.

As I debated my options - running, waiting out the lights…maybe they were on a timer? I heard footsteps approaching, crunching on the leaves and pine needles that had accumulated over the unattended years.  When they got closer, I tried to peek through the center of one of the spools I was hiding behind. I saw his uniform first, O-Sec, Office Security. A large man, built like a weightlifter - could see the black shine of a gun in his right hand and my heart leapt into my throat. It was the man from Cecil’s mural, Corporal Han. Was he the officer assigned to this site? I should have known the Office would still have security even on decommissioned stations like this.]

H] I know you’re here. 

[He stopped in a large open area, looking around at the stacks of materials around him, the sheds and tarps - all hiding places.]

H] Normally, I might blame teenagers. Kids getting a kick out of trespassing on Office property. We had one group a few months ago, teenagers. Two humans, a fae and a vampire. They all forgot their vamp friend couldn’t enter without permission. Fun night.

[He paused, letting the silence fall again. I could see him look around, eyes scanning the yard and narrowing. He sniffed the air in a way that seemed…odd.]

H] But judging by the smell…I think you know what you’re doing. You came in with an idea of what was going on. Either you’re a professional, or someone told you…

[He carefully walked, passing behind a small shed and out of my view. I panicked that I lost track of him for a moment, but then there was a sickening sound. Like flesh stripping and bones crunching, and Han’s voice hissing. Then a sound that echoed through the yard, the sound of a hand - no, a claw, grabbing onto the edge of the shed’s corrugated metal wall, digging in and tearing the metal. A shape followed it. A long maw of shining teeth, white fur. A raised canine lip in a familiar but terrifying gesture of anger and aggression, a low rumble as the muzzle raised, and smelled the air. Then, a whine, another growl, sneezing and huffing as the muzzle retreated behind the shed again, out of my view. Another crunch, a growl, and Han staggered past the shed. Haggard, sweating, panting softly, looking incensed.]

H] And if someone told you, I’m going to have a nice, long…conversation with them. 

[He tried to collect himself, catch his breath, run a hand through his hair. He pulled a bandana from a pocket of his uniform, pulling it over his mouth and nose.]

H] You have one minute. One minute until I call backup. You can hide from me, but can you run from a dozen of us? Most of them won’t have my…shortcomings. 

[My heart was pounding. My head was swimming. My fingers were going numb. I couldn’t claim innocence, not when they found out who I was. Could I make a break for it? All of the ways out seemed to be past him, and if he was what he seemed to be, it would be a short chase. It would end up better for me if I surrendered now, but what happens after that? I’d never work again…or worse.]

H] Cecil?

[Han’s voice was confused, concerned. I snapped around to watch through a gap in the spools as Cecil approached, holding a bottle. The bottle of peppermint oil. He must have taken it earlier when he was looking through my bag.]

C] 1 15 12 18 21 16 14 15 1 9 12 8 25 26 1 15 12 14 2 16 19 1 15 12 16 26 25 16 14 15 1

H] Cecil, what did I tell you about–

[Han took in a breath through the cloth, and exhaled, clearly frustrated. His voice was sharp, low, but his face softened, and there was a soft click as he put his gun away.]

H] Why the peppermint, man? You know what that does to my nose. Were you just trying to sneak around without me knowing? 

[Cecil looked at the bottle, then dropped it.]

C] 26 22 20 12 26 1 16 19 19 13 12 12 19 23 15 8 21 1 22 20 23 8 16 21

H] Are you taking your medicine? Probably not. Let’s….let’s get you back home. Not that bunker, home. 

[Cecil seemed to hesitate, but Han put a hand on his upper arm.]

H] You know you can’t be here. Come on. If you come with me to the station I’ll ask someone to bring you dinner when they come pick you up. Okay?

C] 25 12 8 19 16 1 6 4 8 26 13 22 2 21 11 4 8 21 1 16 21 14

[The older man lowered his head, but followed Han as the guard turned and walked back towards the station - but not before looking around, deciding on the row of spools I was hiding behind, and nodding, jerking his head towards the direction of the gap in the fence.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Once Han and Cecil were out of sight, I ran to the exit. I don’t remember much of the next several minutes - running a roundabout way through the forest, coming to the edge, following that until I found my car. I didn’t allow myself time to decompress. I slammed the keys into the ignition and pulled out onto the highway. 

The tears came just as it started to rain, and I drove until it became difficult to continue. I had gained nothing from this. Nothing but a panic attack and a long-lasting nightmare, a recurring dream with claws, spools of wire, and the scent of peppermint. ]

[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.